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Rod  Sellings 

i APRIL  1984  $2.50 

ANNIVERSARY  ISSUE  m 

Celebrate  with 
SCOTT  GLENN  1 

BURGESS  MEREDITH  || 

KATE  CAPSHAW  1 

of  Raiders  II  * 

Ten  new  tales 
of  fantasy  and  horror 

Story  contest  winners 

TZ  IQ  test 

And  (would  you  believe) 
a love  story  by 
RICHARD  MATHESON 


"f  1 


r'v 


■fv,. 


\ 


S‘M  14369 


Nightmores  Come  Alive  in  Dreamscdpe 


N 


N 

Rod  Serlings 

^^R{TiM70NE 

Mag^ine 


TZ  CONTEST  WINNERS March/April  1984 


Invitation  to  a Party 

Jon  Cohen 

33 

Denny  at  Midnight 

Pamela  J.  Jessen 

36 

Dog 

Bertram  W.  G.  Doyle 

38 

'Wanna  Bet?' 

E.  Walter  Suba,  Jr. 

40 

FICTION 

The  Last  Voyage  of  Sinbad 

Lee  Duigon 

42 

Blunder  Buss 

Richard  Matheson 

55 

Judgment  Day 

Jack  C.  Haldeman  II 

59 

Coming  Soon  to  a Theater  Near  You 

Oliver  Lowenbruck 

60 

God  Shed  His  Grace 

Evan  Eisenberg 

70 

A Little  Two-Chair  Barber  Shop  on  Phillips  Street 

Donald  R.  Burleson 

72 

FEATURES 

In  the  Twilight  Zone 

6 

A Note  from  the  Publisher 

Carol  Serling 

8 

Scott  Glenn:  Now  He  Can  Say  No 

Lorenzo  Carcaterra 

24 

TZ  Interview;  Burgess  Meredith 

James  H.  Bums 

26 

TZ  Screen  Preview;  'Dreamscape' 

James  Vemiere 

50 

Kate  Capshaw;  Dream  Come  True 

James  Vemiere 

52 

You  Saw  Them  in  'The  Twilight  Zone' 

Bill  Bauernfeind 

75 

Show-by-Show  Guide  to  'The  Outer  Limits':  Part  Two 

David  J.  Schow 

82 

Beyond  the  Zone 

Feggo 

89 

TZ  Classic  Teleplay:  'Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong' 

Rod  Serling 

90 

TZ  Classifieds 

102 

OTHER  DIMENSIONS 

Books 

Thomas  M.  Disch 

10 

Screen 

Gahan  Wilson 

14 

Nostalgia:  Urban  Tales  of  Tarzan 

Ron  Goulart 

17 

A 'Twilight  Zone'  Trivia  Quiz 

• 

Gary  Frisch 

20 

Etc. 

22 

Cover  photo  of  David  Patrick  Kelly  from  Droamscape  courtesy  Zuprik-Curtls  Enterprises,  Inc. 

33  36  38  40  42  55  59  60  70  72 


4 Twilight  Zone 


Photo  credits:  Matheson/Morc  Scott  Zicree;  Schow/Trini  Ruiz. 


The 
Winners’ 
Circle 


Baby-sitters  are  ideal  subjects  for 
horror  tales.  They  make  excellent 
victims,  but  in  a pinch  they'll  serve 
equally  well  as  villains.  The  Sitter  as 
Victim  is  young,  attractive,  and, 
above  all,  vulnerable,  all  alone  in  a 
strange  dark  house  with  nothing  but 
some  sleeping  kids  for  company. 

She's  Carol  Kane  in  When  a Stranger 
Calk,  fending  off  a psychopath,  or 
the  girl  in  Robert  Coover’s  "The 
Babysitter,"  playing  out  the  author's 
erotic  fantasies.  In  the  course  of  a 
night  she  may  find  herself  dealing 
with  intruding  teenage  thugs,  satanic 
juveniles,  or  amorous  employei4. 

Sitters  can  play  an  entirely 
different  role,  however,  more 
menacing  than  menaced:  whatever 
their  age,  sex,  and  attractiveness,  they 
are  outsiders,  sometimes  outright 
strangers,  to  whom  we  entrust  our 
home  and  children— a situation  whose 
inherent  terror  is  skillfully  exploited 
by  JON  COHEN  in  this  year's 
prizewinning  story.  Invitation  to  a 
Parti/.  Cohen,  a South  Carolinian 
now  living  in  Swarthmore, 
Pennsylvania,  has  a degree  in  English 
from  Connecticut  College  and  one  in 
nursing  from  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania.  He  says  that  except  for 
winning  a wallet  in  a seventh-grade 
dance  conipetition  and  the  $500  prize 
from  Twilight  Zone,  his  life  has  been 
unremarkable — but  it's  clear  to  us 
that  his  talent  is  remarkable  indeed. 

Children's  vulnerability,  a theme 
that  runs  through  Cohen's  story, 
receives  a considerably  gentler 
treatment  from  our  second 
prizewinner,  PAMELA  J.  JESSEN, 
who  describes  herself  as  "a  member 
of  a vanishing  species:  a mother  who 
stays  home  with  her  kids — and 
writes."  She  lives  with  her  husband 
and  two  sons  in  Colorado  Springs; 
B.K.,  she  says — Before  Kids — she 
worked  for  a large  insurance 
company  and  for  a small  education 
center  on  a U.S.  air  base  in  Germany. 
Her  story  Denny  at  Midnight  is  the 
fruit  of  a creative  writing  class — 
took  it  to  get  myself  going  again 


after  all  the  years  of  mundane 
living" — and  a local  writers'  group. 

Now  living  in  Takoma  Park, 
Maryland,  BERTRAM  W.G.  DOYLE, 
our  third-place  winner,  grew  up 
playing  handball  in  New  York  City's 
200th  Street  IND  station  ("You  miss, 
you  jump  down  on  the  tracks  and 
get  the  ball")  and  reading  Heinlein, 
Tom  Swift,  and  New  Wave  science 
fiction.  Later  he  moved  to 
Lawrenceville,  New  Jersey,  where  he 
was  informed  in  no  uncertain  terms 
that  he  would  never  be  another 
Hemingway.  Still,  he  kept  writing;  his 
first  submission  was  to  Harlan 
Ellison's  Last  Dangerous  Visions.  Dog 
is  his  first  attempt  at  supernatural 
fantasy;  it  is  based,  he  says,  "on  an 
actual  event  that  ended  differently." 

This  year,  like  last,  we  couldn't 
resist  adding  an  extra  short-short  to 
our  winners'  circle — and  it's  another 
story  about  kids.  Its  author, 

E.  WALTER  SUBA,  JR.,  is  a staff 
photographer  for  the  Charleston 
(West  Virginia)  Gazette.  "Writing  sf, 
fantasy,  and  especially  horror  has 
always  been  a closet  passion  for  me," 
he  says,  "but  I've  been  too  lazy  to  sit 
down  and  do  the  work" — which  may 
explain  the  admirable  brevity  of  his 
story  “Wanna  Bet?"  The  idea  came  to 
him  while  he  was  sitting  on  the  front 
porch  watching  the  neighborhood 
children  fight  and  abuse  one  another. 
"I  kept  thinking  of  Art  Linkletter's 
line,  'Kids  say  the  darnedest  things.'  I 
just  carried  it  a step  further  and  let 
them  do  the  darnedest  things." 

One  thing  they'll  do,  if  you  let 
them,  is  make  up  outlandishly  hard 
trivia  quizzes  like  the  one  in  this 
issue  by  GARY  FRISCH;  or  even 
interview  Burgess  Meredith,  as 
JAMES  H.  BURNS  has  done.  Okay, 
they're  not  exactly  kids — the  one  is 
seventeen,  the  other's  twenty-one 
— but  that  sounds  awfully  young  to 
me.  Frisch  is  a senior  at  Fair  Lawn 
High  School  in  New  Jersey  and  hopes 
to  major  in  communications  at  college 
next  year.  His  quiz — the  first  work 
he's  ever  had  published — is  taken 


Doyle  Suba 


from  a book  he's  recently  completed. 
In  the  Twilight  Zone:  Trivia  from  the 
Fifth  Dimension.  (Marc  Zicree,  look 
out!)  Burns,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
been  widely  published  indeed: 
Gentleman's  Quarterly,  American 
Film,  Heavy  Metal,  Esquire,  Family 
Computing — and  that's  just  in  the 
past  year.  He  also  conducted  our 
special  two-part  1981  interview  with 
RICHARD  MATHESON,  one  of  the 
prime  creative  forces  behind  both  the 
Twilight  Zone  tv  series  and  the  recent 
Warner  Bros,  movie.  (Look  for  his 
"Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet"  in  our 
next  issue.)  Blunder  Buss  presents 
this  master  of  terror  in  a distinctly 
lighter  mood. 

Another  ace  interviewer, 
LORENZO  CARCATERRA,  who 
talked  to  V.  C.  Andrews  in  the  June 
'83  TZ,  touches  base  this  time  with 
Scott  Glenn.  Carcaterra  moved  from 
New  York's  Daily  News  to  a staff 
writer's  job  on  Time's  TV  Cable 
Week  and  is  now  doing  the  same  on 
People.  We  think  it's  high  time  he 
wrote  a piece  on  TZ. 

BILL  BAUERNFEIND  will 
probably  score  high  on  this  issue's 
quiz.  He's  been  a Twilight  Zone  fan 
since  the  show’s  inception  and  even 
enjoyed  a brief  correspondence  with 
Rod  Serling.  He  makes  his  living  as  a 
teacher  (now  second  grade,  formerly 
junior  high  school  photography  and 
media  courses)  in  Skokie,  Illinois.  His 
article  traces  the  careers  of  Twilight 
Zone  alumni;  we've  added  some 
additional  material  by  ALLAN 
ASHERMAN  ("Forerunners  of  The 
Twilight  Zone,"  September  '81  TZ). 

Barbers  don't  seem  to  inspire 
quite  the  same  fantasies  that  baby- 
sitters do  (funny  about  that) — in  fact. 
I'm  hard-pressed  to  think  of  any 
noteworthy  barber  stories  outside 


6 Twilight  Zone 


Matheson 


Haldeman 


Burleson 


Schow 


Bauernfeind 


Burns 


Duigon 


Davis  Grubb's  "Return  of  Verge 
Likens"  and  the  legend  of  Sweeney 
Todd-but  DONALD  R.  BURLESON 
has  come  up  with  one  in  A Little 
Two-Chair  Barber  Shop  on  Phillips 
Street.  The  name,  appropriately,  is  a 
homage  to  the  classic  horror  writer 
Howard  Phillips  Lovecraft,  on  whom 
Burleson  is  an  expert,  having  written 
about  him  for  Magill's  new  five- 
volume  Survey  of  Modem  Fantasy 
Literature  and  the  journal  Lovecraft 
Studies,  as  well  as  in  his  own  H.P. 
Lovecraft:  A Critical  Study,  just  out 
from  Greenwood  Press.  Burleson  has 
also  authored  several  math  textbooks; 
he's  an  associate  professor  of 
mathematics  at  Rivier  College  in 
Nashua,  New  Hampshire,  but  he's 
taught  courses  on  Lovecraft  as  well. 

There's  another  touch  of  HPL — 
the  Lovecraft  of  "The  Nameless 
City"-in  LEE  DUIGON's  The  Last 
Voyage  of  Sinbad.  Duigon,  whose 
Metuchen,  New  Jersey,  seems  a long 
way  from  Baghdad,  sf>ent  six  years  as 
a newspaper  editor  and  reporter  but 
eventually  turned  to  other  pursuits. 
"When  I couldn't  get  a job  as  a zoo 
keeper,"  he  says,  "I  turned  to 
writing."  He's  been  published  in  Mike 
Shayne's  Mystery  Magazine  and 
Sorcerer's  Apprentice.  JACK  C. 
HALDEMAN  II  is  an  sf  novelist 
(Perry's  Planet;  There  Is  No  Darkness), 
but  in  our  pages  he's  a master  of  the 
short-short:  "Open  Fra.me"  in  last 
August's  issue,  now  the  provocative 
Judgment  Day.  Freelance  writer  EVAN 
EISENBERG,  who  first  appeared  in 
TZ  with  "Heimlich's  Curse" 

(November  '81),  is  back  with  a wry 
and  wistful  vision  of  The  Day  After. 

Stories  about  Vietnam  veterans 
seem  to  bring  out  the  worst  in  many 
writers;  all  too  often  they're  excuses 
for  macho  chest-thum]3ing  and  a 


curious  kind  of  in-the-know  elitism. 
("Nam"-dropping,  I guess  you'd  call 
it.)  But  Coming  Soon  to  a Theater 
Near  You  was  both  horrifying  and 
humane  enough  to  overcome  my 
prejudices.  Its  author,  OLIVER 
LOWENBRUCK,  lives  in 
Hollywood — "in  the  heart  of  the 
beast,"  as  he  says — and  in  this  past 
year  has  worked  on  novel  series 
(under  a pseudonym)  for  both 
Universal  and  Berkley.  This  is  his 
second  appearance  in  TZ. 

DAVro  J.  SCHOW  continues  his 
history  of  The  Outer  Limits.  I wish  we 
had  full  pages  for  some  of  the 
wonderful  stills  he's  provided, 
especially  that  one  from  "Nightmare," 
in  which,  when  the  photo's  enlarged, 
the  m.onstrous-looking  "Ebonite  Inter- 
rogator" can  be  seen  wearing  a pair  of 
BVDs  beneath  his  black  body-stocking. 

ERRATUM:  TZ  reader  Robert 
Penwick  writes:  "I  didn't  realize  the 
great  Barrymore  could  transform 
himself  into  such  a perfect  vision  of 
Charlie  Ruggles." 

Well,  he  couldn't,  actually.  But 
we  managed  to  turn  Charlie 
Ruggles  into  John  Barrymore 
in  our  last  issue  when  we 
miscaptioned  a still  from  The 
Invisible  Woman  in  Ron  Goulart's 
column.  It  wasn't  Ron's  fault,  it  was 
ours;  we'd  relied  on  information  that 
came  attached  to  the  photo.  Writes 
Robert  Bloch:  "Nostalgia  can  be  a 
saddening  thing  . . . John  Barrymore 
was  unquestionably  one  of  the  most 
famous  stage  and  screen  actors  of  this 
century;  his  Hamlet  is  often  hailed  as 
the  greatest  interpretation  of  all  time, 
and  the  famous  profile  and  voice 
were  known  to  hundreds  of  millions 
of  fans  around  the  world.  But  this  is 
1983  ...  So  much  for  fame.  Happy 
New  Year  anyway!"  — TK 


'RODSERLING’S 


MAGAZff^ 


S.  Edward.  Orensteir 

Chairman  and  Executive  Publisher 
Milton  j.  Cuevas 

President  and  Publisher 
Sidney  Z.  Gellmaii 

Treasurer 

Associate  Publisher  anc 
Consulting  Editor:  Caro'.  Serling 
Executive  Editor:  j'ohr.  R.  Bensink  

Editor  ii.  Chief  T.E.E . Kieir. 

Managing  Editor;  RoberL  Saba': 
Assistan:  Editor;  Alai.  Rodgers 
Books  Editor;  Thomas  iV.  Disef. 
Contributing  Editors:  (jahar.  Wilson, 
James  Verniert,  Ron  GoularL 

Design.  Director;  Michae.  Monte 
Ari  Director;  Pat  E.  McQueer. 

Art  Production:  Florencs  Nea),  Ljiljana 
Randjic-Coleman,  Susan  Lindeman 
Typography:  Irma  Landazurf 

Production  Director: 

Stephen  J.  Fallon 

Vice  President-Finance,  Controller: 
Thomas  Schiff 

Assistant  Controller:  Chris  Grossman 
Assistant  to  the  President:  Jill  Obernier 
Assistant  to  the  Publisher;  Judy  Linden 
Publi»  Relations  Director: 

Jeffrey  Nickora 

Special  Projects  Mgr.:  Brian  Orenstein 
Accounting  Ass't:  Annmarie  Pistilli 
Office  Assistant:  Linda  Jarit 
Traffic:  Ray  Bermudez 

Circulation  Mgr.:  Carole  A.  Harley 
Circulation  Ass't.:  Stephen  Faulkner 
Midwest  Circ.  Mgr.;  Richard  Tejan 
Western  Circ.  Mgr.;  Dominick  LaGatta 

Advertising  Coordinator: 

Marina  Despotakis 

Advertising  Ass't.:  Karen  Martorano 

Rod  Scrling's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  (Issn  ff 
0279-6090)  Marcb-April,  1984,  Volume  4,  Number  1,  is 
published  bimonthly  (6  times  per  year)  in  the  United  States 
and  simultaneously  in  Canada  by  TZ  Publications,  a 
division  of  Montcalm  Publishing  Corporation,  800  Second 
Avenue.  New  York,  N.Y.  10017.  Telephone  (212)  986-9600. 
Copyri^t  © 1984  by  TZ  Publications.  Rod  Serling's  The 
Twilight  Zone  Magazine  is  published  pursuant  to  a license 
from  Carolyn  Serling  and  Viacom  Enterprises,  a division  of 
Viacom  International,  Inc.  All  rights  reserved.  Second-class 
postage  paid  at  New  York,  NY,  and  at  additional  mailing 
offices.  Return  postage  must  accompany  all  unsolicited 
material.  The  publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  care 
and  return  of  unsolicited  materials.  All  rights  reserved  on 
material  accepted  for  publication  unless  otherwise  specified. 
All  letters  sent  to  Rod  Serling's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine 
or  to  its  editors  are  assumed  intended  for  publication.  Noth- 
ing may  be  reproduced  in  whole  or  in  part  without  written 
permission  from  the  publishers.  Any  similarity  between 
« persons  appearii^  and  real  persons  living  or  dead 

is  coincidental.  Sin^l^opies  $2.50  in  U.S.,  $3  in  Canada. 
Subscriptions:  U.S.  and  U.S.  possessions  $16,  Canada 
and  foreign  $19.  Foreign  subscriptions  must  be  paid  in 
U.S.  currency,  except  Canada.  ABC  membership  applied  for 
and  pending.  Postmaster:  Send  address  changes  to  Rod 
Serli^s  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  P.O.  Box  252,  Mt. 
Morris,  IL  61054-02S2.  Printed  in  U.S.A. 


Twilight  Zone  7 


A Note 

from  tlie  Publislicr... 


This  issue  of  Twilight  Zone  marks  our  third 
anniversary,  and  we're  proud  to  present  the 
winners  of  our  Third  Annual  Short  Story  Contest. 
To  Jon  Cohen,  Pamela  J.  Jesaen,  Bertram  W.  G.  Doyle, 
and  E,  Walter  Suba,  Jr.,  our  heartiest  congratulations. 

Twilight  Zone  stories  have  sometimes  been  called 
electronic-age  campfire  tales,  folklore  for  the  high-tech 
generation,  or  simply  "metaphysical  hoodwinks."  As  for 
these  1984  versions,  we'll  let  you  be  the  judge — although 
I'd  wager  you'll  find  yourself  journeying  once  again  into 
that  familiar  inner  space  where  mankind's  primal  fears, 
hopes,  dreams,  and  nightmares  lie.  Hopefully,  though, 
you'll  also  find  in  these  new  stories  some  of  the  same 
caring,  concern,  and  commitment  that  we  did — qualities 
that  were  such  a crucial  part  of  the  tv  series.  There's  no 
question  in  my  mind  that  these  unusual  odysseys  are  of, 
in,  and  about  that  other  dimension. 

To  that  end,  we  thought  it  would  be  fun  to 
follow  up  on  reader  Richard  Knox's  suggestion  and  find 
out  which  episodes  from  the  tv  series  the  rest  of  you 
found  the  most  memorable.  The  results  are  in,  and  the 
choices  you've  made  are  as  varied  as  the  series  itself 
was:  stories  of  lost  identity  and  the  eternal  search  for 
self  . . . dread  of  the  unknown,  fear  of  the  future  and 
death  . . . nuclear  holocaust  and  the  destruction  of 
human  freedom.  But  stories,  too,  of  the  dignity  of  man, 
his  treatment  of  his  fellows  and  his  common  yearnings 
...  his  need  for  commitment  and  the  importance  of 
love  . . . and,  appropriately,  stories  of  crazy,  unruly 
machines  . . . masterpiece  studies  of  fear  and  terror,  and 
even  a "shaggy  saucer  story." 

In  commenting  about  the  series  some  years  ago. 
Rod  said,  "We  had  some  real  turkeys,  some  fair  ones, 
and  some  shows  I'm  really  proud  to  have  been  a part 
of."  My  feeling  is  that  the  program  was  at  its  best  when 
it  went  beyond  pure  entertainment  and  dealt  with  timely 
issues  and  ideas,  giving  a gentle  prod  to  the  viewer  and 
making  him  think.  If  there  is  a lingering  message  to  be 
found  in  The  Twilight  Zone,  it  is  a reminder  of  man's 
inhumanity  to  man — and  a warning  that  the  crime  of 
the  century  is  a lack  of  caring  and  the  loss  of  our 
capacity  for  outrage. 


Here  are  the  results  of  the  Reader's  Poll: 

1.  "Eye  of  the  Beholder"  (a  runaway  favorite) 

2.  "Time  Enough  at  Last" 

3.  "Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet" 

4.  "To  Serve  Man" 

5.  "Night  of  the  Meek" 

6.  "It's  a Good  Life" 

7.  "Walking  Distance" 

8.  "A  Stop  at  Willoughby" 

9.  "The  Invaders" 

10.  "The  Monsters  Are  Due  on  Maple  Street" 

11.  "Living  Doll" 

12.  "Five  Characters  in  Search  of  an  Exit" 

13.  "The  After  Hours" 

14.  "Kick  the  Can" 

15.  "The  Obsolete  Man" 

16.  "A  Hundred  Yards  Over  the  Rim" 

17.  "A  World  of  His  Own" 

18.  "And  When  the  Sky  Was  Opened" 

19.  "Will  the  Real  Martian  Please  Stand  Up?" 

20.  "Death's  Head  Revisited" 

"Nothing  in  the  Dark"  (tie) 

We've  published  fourteen  of  the  above  list  in  this 
magazine  to  date,  and  "Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet"  is 
coming  next.  All  three  segments  featured  in  Twilight 
Zone — The  Movie  made  the  top  twenty.  In  general,  your 
choices  matched  the  straw  poll  that  we  ran  in  the  office 
and  also  agreed  with  our  in-house  expert,  Marc  Scott 
Zicree.  I don't  have  to  tell  you  which  are  my  favorites 
— you've  been  reading  them  all  along  in  the  magazine! 
(It's  nice  to  have  creative  control.)  I was  surprised  at  a 
couple  of  episodes  that  didn't  make  the  list,  but  you've 
made  our  job  easy  now;  we  know  which  teleplays  to 
publish  next.  Thanks  to  all  for  your  cooperation. 

In  any  event  ...  do  enjoy  this  Third  Anniversary 
Issue,  where,  as  it  is  said,  "the  improbable  is  made 
possible  and  the  impossible  is  made  probable." 


Associate  Publisher 


8 Twilight  Zone 


Illustration  © 1983  Thomas  M.  DIsch 


OTHER 


N 


S 


The  Queen's  Gambit 

by  Walter  Tevis  (Random 
House,  $13.95)  is  an 
inspirational  novel  for  intellectuals. 

It  concerns  the  ever-more-succejsful 
career  of  Beth  Harmon,  from  her 
early  days  in  the  Methuen  Home 
orphanage,  an  institution  as  garishly 
oppressive  as  Dotheboys  Hall  in 
Dickens's  Nicholas  Nickleby,  to  her 
still-youthful  triumph  over  the 
Russian  grandmaster  of  chess,  Vasily 
Borgov.  The  vicarious  satisfaction  of 
following  Ms.  Harmon's  ascent  to 
chess  greatness,  on  the  wings  of  her 
own  (largely  unassisted)  genius,  can 
be  savored  equally  by  readers  with  a 
passion  for  the  game  and  by  those 
like  myself  who  would  sooner  play 
Scrabble  or  Othello.  Only  a 
knowledgeable  chessplayer  (Tevis's 
jacket  copy  says  he  is  a class  C 
player,  which  must  be  good  enough 
to  brag  about!)  could  have  depicted 
the  heroine's  growing  mastery  of  the 
game  in  such  persuasive  detail,  but 
only  an  artist  could  have  informed 
that  detail  with  drama  so  unfailingly 
compelling.  Chess,  by  virtue  of  its 
involuted  intricacy,  is  an  interesting 
game  but  not  a likely  subject  for 
dramatic  treatment,  yet  The  Queen's 
Gambit  is  one  of  those  books  that 
will  make  you  put  the  rest  of  your 
life  on  hold  until  you've  reached  the 
last  page,  and  it  does  this  without 
lever  embroidering  its  basic  theme 
with  extraneous  melodrama. 

That  theme  is  self-mastery  under 
conditions  of  extreme  adversity.  Beth's 
first  adversary  is  the  orphanage, 
where  her  youthful  genius,  though 
discovered,  is  ignored,  and  where  she 
is  addicted,  at  the  age  of  eight,  to  the 
use  of  tranquilizers.  (The  novel  begins 


D I M E N S I O 

BcMks 

by  Thomas  M.  Disch 


in  the  fifties,  when  Librium  was 
almost  as  common  as  fluoridated 
water.)  Beth's  potential  for  drug 
dependency  acts  as  a Damoclean 
sword,  ready  to  come, crashing  down 
at  any  moment  of  crisis.  When  she 
grows  older,  the  problem  is 
compounded  by  a proclivity  for 
alchoholic  bingeing.  Tevis's  depiction 
of  Beth's  delicate  balance  between 
youthful  fame  and  incipient  self- 
destruction  is  all  the  more  convincing 
because  she  never  steps  out  of 
character.  As  one  might  expect  of  a 
chess  prodigy  (and  an  alumna  of 
Methuen  Home),  Beth  runs  a low 
emotional  temperature.  She  negotiates 
the  various  crises  of  her  life  carefully 
and  usually  with  success,  but  her 
only  passion  is  for  chess.  When  she 
gets  a chance  to  join  her  high 
school's  "elite  Apple  Pi"  sorority 
(after  becoming  a national  celebrity), 
she  experiences  an  astonishment  of 
boredom  and  taxis  home  early  to 
read  The  Middle  Game  in  Chess. 

Later  she  arranges  her  sexual 
defloration  in  much  the  same  spirit 
one  might  take  a driving  exam. 

The  book's  best  coup  de  theatre 
is  Beth's  relationship  with  her 
adoptive  mother,  Mrs.  Wheatley, 
whose  transformation,  under  Beth's 
relentless  pressure,  from  a morose 
slattern  into  her  adoptive  daughter's 
agent  is  the  stuff  that  Academy 
Awards  are  made  of.  (Two  of  Tevis's 
earlier  novels  became  classic  movies; 
The  Hustler,  with  Paul  Newman  and 
Jackie  Gleason  dueling  with  pool 
cues;  and  The  Man  Who  Fell  to 
Earth.  Another  sf  novel. 

Mockingbird,  is  said  to  be  in 
production.) 

While  The  Queen's  Gambit  is  not 
in  any  sense  science-fictional,  its 
appeal  is  similar  to  that  of  such  sf 
classics  as  More  than  Human  or 
Flowers  for  Algernon,  both  effective 
wish-fulfillment  fantasies  for  those 
whose  organ-of-preference  is  the 
brain.  Intellectuals  rarely  get  a chance 
to  read  inspirational  novels 
— leastways,  not  ones  that  cater  to 
their  daydreams.  Jocks  have  Rocky 
and  housewives  have  Silhouette 
Romances,  fictional  fare  tailored 


for  the  specific  purpose  of  ego 
reinforcement  and  the  better  morale 
of  the  troops.  But  intellectuals — that 
is,  people  determined  to  be  bright 
and  knowledgeable — are  generally 
expected  to  read  books  that  will 
make  them  worry  more.  Books  that 
can  do  this  are  accounted  Serious 
Literature;  those  that  can't,  or  choose 
not  to,  aren't.  So,  though  The 
Queen's  Gambit  won't  enhance  your 
reputation  for  Seriousness,  it's  a 
delightful  book,  and  a guaranteed 
antidote  to  the  blues,  the  blahs, 
and  many  forms  of  non-chronic 
depression.  However,  if  such  troubles 
persist,  you're  advised  to  see  a 
physician. 

Or — if  you  do  want  to  enhance 
your  reputation  for  Seriousness, 
and  you  believe  in  literature's 
homeopathic  powers — then  you  might 
read  The  Complete  Stories  by  Franz 
Kafka  (Schocken,  $22.50).  Kafka  is 
the  king  of  worriers,  the  Lord  Apollo 
of  the  Age  of  Anxiety.  From  the  late 
forties  through  the  early  sixties, 
Kafka's  reputation  in  this  country  was 
such  that  his  name,  in  its  adjectival 
form,  "Kafkaesque,"  became 
synonomous  with  anything  that  is 
scary  and  slightly  skewed,  rather  the 
way  that  the  Twilight  Zone  theme  is 
used  nowadays. 

Virtually  all  Kafka's  stories  have 
an  element  of  fantasy,  or  at  least  of 
radical  strangeness,  but  Kafka's 
fantasies  bear  little  resemblance  to 
what  is  traditionally  offered  to 
readers  of  genre  fantasy.  This  is  not 
simply  because;  of  the  darker 
emotional  coloring  of  much  of  his 
work,  but  because  Kafka  had  little 
use  for  conventional  supernatural 
trappings  (except  in  some  of  the  fifty- 
five  extremely  short  pieces  that  fill 
out  the  last  si:<th  of  this  very  hefty 
collection)  or  for  conventional  notions 
of  narrative  strategy. 

Kafka's  stories  are  dreamlike  in 
an  almost  definitive  sense.  That's  to 
say,  he  has,  as  much  as  Freud, 
shaped  our  intellectual  conception  of 
the  dreaming  process.  Reading  his 
best  work  is  like  walking  into  the 
labyrinth  of  the  subconscious— but 


10  Twilight  Zone 


without  the  reassurance  of  some 
precautionary  Ariadnei's-thread  of 
rationality,  such  as  psychoanalytic 
theory  provides.  Kafka,  like  such 
Symbolist  poets  as  Mallarme,  created 
allegorical  systems  that  have  no  key. 
There  could  be  no  better  testimony  to 
his  success  at  resisting  interpretation 
than  the  immense  wasteland  of 
criticism  devoted  to  that  purpose. 
Kafka's  worlds  are  as  unmappable  as 
those  in  our  dreams,  and  within  their 
shifting  terrains  his  characters  enjoy  a 
strange  autonomy. 

For  these  and  other  reasons 
Kafka  probably  creates  more  anxiety 
among  his  readers  than  any  other 
author;  not  the  vicarious  chills  and 
thrills  of  narrative  suspense  that 
conventional  "spine-tinglers"  aim  at, 
but  genuine  distress.  As  a result,  he 
is  probably  more  deferred  to  than 
read,  even  by  those  who  drop  his 
name  from  time  to  time.  Instead  of 
being  one  of  the  highest  hurdles  on 
the  track  to  being  hip,  he  has  been 
relegated  to  the  status  of  an  Honored 
Classic,  whom  one  may  have  to  read 
in  college  but,  with  luck,  never  again: 


"Kafka's  'Metamorphosis'?  Isn't  that 
the  one  about  the  guy  who  wakes  up 
and  discovers  he's  a cockroach?  I 
think  I've  got  my  Cliff  Notes 
somewhere." 

If  that  has  been  your  take  on 
Kafka,  let  me  urge  you  to  give  him 
another  chance  and  dip  into  some  of 
the  less  famous  tales  from  The 
Complete  Stories.  A personal  favorite 
of  my  own  is  the  autobiographical 
animal  fable,  "Investigations  of 
a Dog,"  which  is  told  in  the 
first  person  by  an  older  dog,  who 
recollects  the  frolics  of  his  youth 
from  the  philosophic  vantage  of 
maturity.  Kafka's  dog  narrator  is 
unfailingly  canine  (I've  known  a 
golden  retriever  with  much  the  same 
basic  disposition),  but  here  is  such  a 
dog  as  could  only  exist  in  Kafka's 
world,  where  (the  reader  slowly 
learns)  the  people  who  care  for  and 
feed  these  dogs  are  all  invisible, 
apprehended  only  as  a kind  of  music. 
Thus,  Kafka's  dogs  in  their  relation 
to  their  unseen  masters  are  analogous 
to  men  in  their  relation  to  the  gods 
in  their  more  providential  aspects: 


. . . the  essence  of  all  knowledge  Is 
enough  for  me,  the  simple  rule  with 
which  the  mother  weans  her  young 
ones  from  her  teats  and  sends  them 
into  the  world:  'Water  the  ground  as 
much  as  you  can.'  And  in  this  sentence 
is  not  almost  everything  contained? 
What  has  scientific  inquiry,  ever  since 
our  first  fathers  inaugurated  it,  of 
decisive  imporfance  to  add  to  this? 
Mere  details,  . , . but  this  rule  will 
remain  as  long  as  we  are  dogs.  It 
concerns  our  main  staple  of 
food  ....  this  food  we  find  on  fhe 
earth,  but  the  earth  needs  our  water 
to  nourish  it  and  only  at  that  price 
provides  us  with  our  food,  the 
emergence  of  which  . . . can  also  be 
hastened  by  certain  spells,  songs,  and 
ritual  movements  .... 

As  with  the  other  most  notable 
creator  of  dream  worlds,  Lewis 
Carroll,  the  signature  quality  of 
Kafka's  work  is  its  diffident — and  at 
times  dithering — handling  of  What- 
Can't-Be  not  simply  as  What-Is  (all 
fantasy  must  do  that)  but  as  What-Is- 
Taken-For^Granted.  He  imagines  a 
man  metamorphosed  into  a giant 


Realitv  Far  Stranger 

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insect  and  then  he  sets  him  to 


worrying  whether  he  can  get  to  the 
office  on  time. 

For  sf  writers  with  New  Wave 
affinities,  Kafka  has  been  a major 
source  of  inspiration  and  touchstone 
of  excellence.  Indeed,  Rudy  Rucker, 
who  may  lay  claim  to  being  the  last 
of  the  New  Wave  generation  (though 
he  would  probably  not  want  to) 
entitled  his  own  (very  good)  first 
collection  of  short  fiction  The  57th 
Franz  Kafka;  as  if  to  say,  "Yes,  we 
all  follow  in  those  footsteps." 

Well,  perhaps  not  quite  all — not 
on  the  evidence  of  Charles  Grant's 
anthology  of  original  (fourteen)  and 
reprinted  (six)  short  stories,  lamely 
titled  The  Dodd,  Mead  Gallery  of 
Horror  (Dodd,  Mead,  $15.95).  This  is 
not  to  slight  the  merits  of  the 
collection,  which  vary,  necessarily, 
from  tale  to  tale  but  which  racks  up 
^ a pretty  good  total  score;  it  is  shnply 
to  note  that  "dark  fantasy"  (Grant's 
high-toned  euphemism  for  "horror 
stories";  thus  undertakers  become 
- "grief  counselors"  and  garbagemen 
"sanitary  engineers")  is  a traditional 
rather  than  an  experimental  or 
innovative  art  form. 

There  are  undeniable  advantages 
to  playing  the  game  by  the  rules. 
Geniuses  may  fly  in  the  face  of 
tradition,  but  when  their  epigones 
attempt  to  follow  them,  the  result  is 
likely  to  lack  both  the  strength  of 
conventional  post-and-lintel 
construction  or  the  energy  of  first 
defiance.  Traditional  values  in  fiction 
(a  strong  plot,  believable  characters, 
flowing  prose)  are  a safeguard  against 
major  debacle  in  much  the  way  that 
wearing  evening  clothes  protects  one 
against  sartorial  solecisms.  They  offer, 
as  do  the  sonnet  and  the  sonata 
form,  the  aesthetic  satisfaction  of 
tight  closure.  But  the  chief  virtue  of  a 
traditional  narrative,  for  most  readers, 
is  surely  that  it  is  comfortable,  like  a 
couch  one  has  lived  with  many  years 
and  that  has  learned  the  shape  of 
one's  head.  Since  horror  stories  must 
deal  with  subjects  that  are  inherently 
disquieting,  this  observance  of 
aesthetic  decorums  ("Once  upon  a 
time  . . . ")  helps  defuse — or  at  least 
distance — feelings  that  could  be 
genuinely  dangerous,  if  given  a less 
circumscribed  expression. 

Is  all  this  just  a roundabout  way 
of  saying  that  The  Dodd,  Mead 


Gallery  of  Horror  is  $15.95  worth  of 
the  mixture-as-before?  Partly,  but  it's 
also  to  say  that  some  of  its  contents 
have  been  compounded  very  well; 
none  more  so  than  the  lead  story, 
William  F.  Nolan's  "Something 
Nasty,"  a horror  story  about  why 
people  want  to  tell  horror  stories. 
Nolan  deserves  some  kind  of  trophy 
(the  head  of  a rat,  perhaps,  stuffed 
and  mounted)  for  having  carved  such 
a fine  little  netsuke  of  nastiness. 

With  Nolan  establishing  the  "A" 
position  of  a grading  scale,  then  there 
are  at  least  three  B-pluses  to  be 
singled  out  (not  surprisingly,  they  are 
reprints):  Theodore  Sturgeon's 
"Talent";  "Down  Among  the  Dead 
Men"  by  Gardner  Dozois  and  Jack 
Dann;  and  "Petey"  by  Twilight 
Zone's  own  T.E.D.  Klein.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  scale  there  are  fewer 
decomposed  lemons  than  one  would 
be  likely  to  find  in  other  recent  genre 
anthologies  (since  there  has  been  a 
booming  sellers'  market  in  horror 
fiction  of  late).  Three  of  these  lemons 
rate  D's:  "The  Sunshine  Club"  by  the 
usually  reliable  Ramsey  Campbell, 
here  free-associating  with  a notable 
lack  of  narrative  steam;  "The 
Typewriter"  by  David  Morrell,  an 
E.C.  Comics  plot  told  with  leaden 
humor;  and  (worse  than  either  of 
those)  "Death  to  the  Easter  Bunny!" 
by  Alan  Ryan,  who  sets  out  to 
sinisterize  Easter  Bunny  lore  and  fails, 
and  then,  to  compound  the  failure, 
tries  to  pretend  he  was  only  joking, 
which  he  wasn't,  not  for  a comma. 
Ryan  deserves  a bag  of  killer 
tomatoes  for  this  one. 

And  that  leaves  Eric  Van 
Lustbader,  whose  thirty-page 
novelette,  "In  Darkness,  Angels," 
merits  such  a monumental  F that  it 
almost  flips  round  the  axis  of  the 
scoring  scale,  as  hyperbolas  do,  and 
achieves  greatness.  For  some  time 
already  Lustbader  has  enjoyed  a cult 
status  among  connoisseurs  of  the 
sublimely  awful.  His  bestselling  novels 
are  written  in  a prose  style  that 
relieves  critics  of  any  need  to  write 
reviews:  they  need  only  quote. 
Lustbader  has  a knack  for  the  mot 
injuste  and  the  perfect  placement  of 
the  most  ringing  cliches  that  not  even 
Stephen  Donaldson  can  rival.  (Indeed, 
Donaldson  scores  at  least  a B-minus 
for  his  contribution  to  this  volume, 
an  overwritten  but  honestly  felt  tale 
of  conjugal  lunacy.)  Here,  for 
instance,  is’  how  Lustbader  begins  his 
story: 


If  I had  known  then  what  I know 
now. 

How  those  v^ords  echo  on  and  on 
inside  my  mind,  iike  a rubber  boli 
bouncing  down  an  endiess  staircase.  As 
if  they  had  a iite  of  their  own.  Which,  i 
suppose,  they  do  now. 

i cannot  sieep,  but  is  it  any 
wonder?  Outside,  biue-white  iightning 
forks  iike  a giant's  jagged  ciaw  and 
the  thunder  is  so  ioud  at  times  that  i 
feei  i must  be  trapped  inside  an 
immense  beii,  reverberations  like 
memory  unspooiing  in  a reckless  helix, 
making  a mess  at  my  feet. 

If  I had  known  then  what  I know 
now.  And  yet  , . , , 

Lustbader's  dramatic  organization 
and  sense  of  character  are  of  a piece 
with  his  verbal  wizardry.  He  takes 
aim  with  a cannon  for  the  bam  door 
of  the  Lowest  Common  Denominator 
and  then,  as  in  a Buster  Keaton 
movie,  he  hits  a tree  in  a neighbor's 
field.  Here  his  narrator  portrays  the 
moment  when  he  is  falling  in  love 
with  a vampire's  beautiful  sister: 

. , . Ten  thousand  tiny  leaves 
moved  minutely  in  the  soft  breeze  as  if 
I were  watchinQi  a distant  crowd 
fluttering  lifted  handkerchiefs  at  the 
arrival  of  some  visiting  emperor.  A kind 
of  dreamy  warmth  stole  over  me  and 
at  once  my  unerasiness  was  gone. 

“Yes,"  I told  her.  "It  Is  peaceful 
here." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "You  feel  it 
too.  Perhaps  that  is  because  you  are  a 
writer.  A writer  feels  things  more  deeply, 
is  that  not  so?" 

I smiled.  "Maybe  some,  yes.  We're 
always  creating  characters  for  our 
stories  so  we  have  to  be  adept  at 
pulling  apart  the  people  we 
meet . . . . " 

There  was  a singer  once,  Florence 
Foster  Jenkins,  who  had  a similar 
way  with  her  art.  Her  ear  was  purest 
tin,  her  voice  of  msty  iron;  she  had 
impeccably  bad  taste— and  the  highest 
opinion  of  her  own  artistry.  Being  a 
woman  of  means,  every  year  she 
rented  Camegit:  Hall  and  gave  an 
invitation-only  concert.  Tickets  to 
those  concerts  were  scalped  for  huge 
prices,  and  the  records  made  of  the 
sounds  she  produced  are  still 
available  from  RCA  all  these  decades 
later.  Reading  Lustbader's  "In 
Darkness,  Angels"  is  like  hearing 
Florence  Foster  Jenkins  perform  Vissi 
d'arte — an  unfc'rgettable  and 
incomparable  experience.  19 


12  Twilight  Zone 


Illustration  © 1983  Gahan  Wilson 


Three  perfectly  all  right  items 
this  time.  One  is  an  entirely 
unpretentious  aliens-on-Earth 
film  which  works  quite  nicely  within 
its  purposely  limited  terms;  the 
second  is  very  pretentious,  but  pulls 
off  some  really  spectacular  effects  on 
its  wobbling  way  to  disaster;  and  the 
third  is  an  odd  super-spectacular 
which  is  only  allowable  in  this 
column  if  you  look  upon  this 
universe  as  the  late  Buckminster 
Fuller  did,  viewing  it  as  a 
nonsimultaneous  scenario — which  I 
certainly  hope  you  do,  dear  readers. 

Let  us  start  with  the  lightest, 
least  demanding,  and  in  its  modest 
way,  best  of  the  lot:  Strange 
Invaders,  which  is  the  second 
collaboration  between  director-writer 
Michael  Laughlin  and  writer  William 
Condon.  Messrs.  Laughlin  and 
Condon's  aim  is  merely  to  produce 
an  entertaining  and  divertingly 
spooky  movie.  I liked  their  first 
effort.  Strange  Behavior,  for  much 
the  same  reasons.  They  enjoy  adding 
wry  bits  of  humor  here  and  there, 
and  more  often  than  not,  the  bits 
work.  Finally,  they  have  a good  feel 
for  the  foibles  of  our  American  way 
of  life,  framing  their  monsters  and 
weird  doings  very  cleverly  within  it. 

Behavior  was  located  entirely  in 
a smallish  town,  the  sort  Hitchcock 
loved  to  explore  in  his  Afherican 


Gothic  offerings,  and  it  rendered 
quite  touchingly  the  confusion  of  the 
simple  townfolk  as  they  found 
themselves  confronted  with  an  almost 
European-style  villainy.  (Actually,  the 
fiend  turned  out  to  be  one  of  their 
own,  but  he  had  traveled  far  and 
picked  up  fancy  ways.) 

In  Invaders,  the  scene  of  the 
action  is  considerably  expanded;  it 
includes  not  only  the  boonies  but  evil 
old  New  York  as  well.  Thi^  allows 
much  humorous  comment  on  the 
provincialism  of  the  big  city  as  well 
as  of  small  towns,  and  on  their  dread- 
filled  apprehensions  of  one  another. 

One  of  the  film's  funniest 
running  gags  (and  there  are  many) 
takes  off  from  this  premise  of  societal 
contrasts.  The  aliens  have  occupied  a 
dinky  Midwestern  town  back  in  the 
1950s,  turning  themselves  into  look- 
alikes  of  the  town's  original 
inhabitants.  Twenty-five  years  later 
events  force  the  aliens  to  travel  to 
New  York  City  (they  travel 
economically,  via  bus)  where,  being 
aliens,  it  never  crosses  their  minds 
that  to  any  New  Yorker  a small-town 
Midwesterner — and  certainly  a small- 
town Midwesterner  garbed  in  clothes 
that  were  fashionable  twenty-five 
years  ago — will  look  alien.  It's  a very 
funny  effect. 

The  cast  for  Invaders  was 
lovingly  assembled,  and  I can't  think 


how  it  could  have  been  improved 
upon.  Best  is  Nancy  Allen  as  a sort 
of  Carole  Lombard  type  who,  as  a 
hack  reporter  for  a particularly 
obscure,  tacky  expos^type 
newspaper,  stirs  up  trouble  when  she 
runs  a routine  ALIENS  ARE  AMONG 
US  piece  with,  inadvertently,  a 
photograph  of  one  of  our  actual 
aliens.  She  is  a wacky  delight.  Paul 
LeMat,  the  Melvin  of  Melvin  and 
Howard,  is  just  right  as  a professor 
of  bugs  at  a big  New  York  university 
who,  all  unknowingly,  has  become 
betrothed  to  a female  alien.  Then  we 
have  Kenneth  Tobey  doing  a swell 
job  as  a Midwestern  alien  who 
doesn't  like  dogs,  and  Michael  Lemer, 
who  has  left  off  playing  historical 
types  such  as  Pierre  Salinger, 
portraying  a simple  tourist  who,  after 
viewing  his  whole  family  wither  into 
ghastly  pink  slugs  which  in  turn 
change  into  floating  globs  of  blue, 
spends  a good  long  stretch  at  the 
Funny  Farm. 

One  excellent  performance  is 
that  of  Louise  Fletcher  as  Mrs. 
Benjamin,  the  harried  head  of 
a very  mysterious,  paranoid-style 
government  outfit  which  keeps 
nervous  track  of  weird  presences  on 
our  planet  (the  jittery  implication  is 
that  there  are  quite  a few  of  them), 
including  the  Midwestern  aliens. 
Fletcher  makes,  a few  bad  guesses 


OTHER  DIM 

Screen 

by  Gahan  Wilson 


"We  all  cheered  at  the  end.  ” Allens-in-dlsguise  Kenneth  Tobey  (late  of 
The  Thing)  and  Diana  Scarwid  clash  in  the  rousing  conclusion  of  Strange 
Invaders,  just  as  their  saucer  is  about  to  take  off. 


14  Twilight  Zone 


"Extraordinary  gadgetry ..."  Lcxjise  Fletcher  ploys  o scientist  in  Brainstorm  who, 
at  the  moment  of  her  death,  manages  to  record  the  experience  on 
the  machine  she  helped  invent. 


now  and  then;  she  muffs  it  when 
LeMat  and  Allen  flee  New  York  via 
Amtrak  and  thus  easily  slip  through 
her  blockade,  herself  having  earlier 
declared,  "Nobody  takes  the  train 
these  days!"  Still,  so  far,  at  least,  she 
and  her  shadowy  organization  have 
managed,  one  way  or  another,  to 
keep  our  planet  from  being  destroyed 
by  strangers. 

The  more  peculiar  actions  of  the 
aliens,  including  some  gross  and 
slurpy  transformations  (you  wouldn't 
believe  what  an  alien  does  to  itself 
when  it  gets  hot  and  uncomfortable 
in  its  room  at  the  New  York  Hilton!), 
are  ably  handled  by  what  is  billed  as 
The  Alien  Effects  Unit,  which  also 
shrinks  some  poor  innocent  little  kid 
into  a wonderfully  repulsive,wrinkly, 
gicky-poo  mess.  Well  done. 

Though  it  does  take  place  mostly 
in  the  1980s,  Invaders  is  very  much 
of  the  fifties  in  mood,  premise,  and 
even  in  color;  the  blues  and  reds  and 
odd  greens  very  much  suggest  the 
oddish  hues  you'd  see  in  movies  of 
that  time.  Of  course,  it's  all  gently 
satirized  and  full  of  put-ons  of  the 
period,  but  the  plot,  characters,  and 
certainly  the  wrap-ups  play  the  fifties 
game  affectionately.  The  folks  in  the 
theater,  myself  included,  had  a fine 
time  of  it,  and  we  all  cheered  at  the 
end. 

Our  next  review  must 
unfortunately  be  a little  more  lacking 
in  enthusiasm.  Even  though 
Brainstorm  has  some  excellent  stuff  in 
it,  it  is  not,  as  its  slogan  in  the  ads 
asks  you  to  believe,  "The  Ultimate 
Experience."  Or  at  least  I hope  not. 

Brainstorm  is,  in  its  essence, 
exactly  the  same  in  structure,  milieu, 
and  basic  intent  as  Altered  States.  If 
you  saw  the  first,  there  is  no  way  in 
the  world  you  can  avoid  comparing  it 
to  the  second  in  all  the  above 
categories — and  unfortunately  for 
Brainstorm,  it  comes  away  the  loser 
in  every  one  of  them. 

Take  its  attempt  to  create  the 
mood  of  the  academic/scientific 
world.  Thanks  to  Paddy  Chayevsky 
and  his  magic  ear,  the  dialogue  of  the 
researchers  in  States  had  just  the  right 
ring;  the  enthusiastic  overlapping 
conversations  sounded  absolutely 
right.  In  Brainstorm,  however,  the 
script  by  Robert  Stitzel  and  Philip 
Frank  Messina  just  does  not  get  it; 
the  chatter  between  the  scientists  is 
far  too  slow,  too  simple.  If  you  listen 
to  technicians  excitedly  conversing 
about  their  discipline,  especially  a 


discipline  you  are  not  equally  expert 
in,  it  is  generally  impossible  to  follow 
them.  You  catch  flashes,  glimmerings, 
but  they're  always  dancing  ahead  of 
you.  That's  the  kind  of  dialogue  you 
got  in  States;  you  don't  in 
Brainstorm. 

Again,  the  actors  in  States  all 
had  a scientist's  alertness  about  them, 
an  impatient  brightness,  and  an 
almost  angry  eagerness  to  understand. 
Not  in  Brainstorm.  Here,  with  the 
occasional  exception  of  Louise 
Fletcher  (hi  there  again,  Louise!), 
there's  no  indication  that  they're 
really  relating  to  the  extraordinary 
gadgetry  around  them. 

Christopher  Walken,  as  the  hero 
scientist,  is  particularly  unfortunate  in 
this  regard.  He  has  been  excellent  in 
many  roles — I thought  he  was  nigh 
perfect  as  the  ice-cold  professional 
soldier  in  Dogs  of  War — but  he  is 
completely  unable  to  project  the 
intellectual  enthusiasm  so 
characteristic  of  a really  tumed-on 
scientist.  The  part  demands  someone 
absolutely  frantic  in  the  search  for 
the  truth,  and  it  gets  instead  a cool, 
disinterested  sort  who,  at  best,  when 
fooling  around  with  the  really 
extraordinary  props  in  Brainstorm, 


comes  across  as  a mere  technician 
rath^  than  as  an  honest-to-God 
discoverer. 

Natalie  Wood,  as  his  troubled 
wife,  is  also  unconvincing  as  a 
scientist,  and,  unlike  Walken,  she 
doesn't  ever  evince  any  feel  for  the 
intricacies  of  the  lab  machinery 
stretching  all  about  her.  You  suspect 
she  wouldn't  have  a clue  about  how 
to  use  a soldering  iron,  though  she'd 
mean  well. 

Louise  Fletcher  (hi!)  does  come 
across  well  sometimes,  and  I think 
that  with  better  dialogue  she  could 
probably  have  been  convincing.  But 
she  hasn't  got  better  dialogue.  Cliff 
Robertson,  the  scientific  entrepreneur 
who  coordinates  the  project,  is  good. 
He  obviously  knows  how  to  play 
cagey  power  types,  and  it's  clear  that 
the  authors  of  the  script  have  a better 
handle  on  the  sort  of  dialogue  likely 
to  come  from  the  mouths  of  wheeler- 
dealers  than  of  scientists. 

The  real  lead  in  the  picture  is,  of 
course,  not  a human  at  all,  but  a 
dingus  which  can  record  any  event 
experienced  by  one  human  and  can 
play  that  event  to  any  other  human. 

I could  record  myself  writing  at  this 
moment,  and  you  could  play  me 


Twilight  Zone  15 


SCREEN 


back  and  know  if  I'm  using  a 
typewriter  or  a pencil.  [It's  a pencil, 
unfortunately. — Ed.] 

The  whoopie  fun  aspect  of  all 
this  comes  when  we  see  the  gadget 
transformed  from  a great  big  helmet 
with  cooling  cables  until,  after  a 
number  of  stages,  it  becomes  a handy 
little  plastic  Sony-type  unit  which  can 
be  mass-produced  and  clipped  onto 
your  head  as  lightly  as  a tennis 
sweatband.  (The  film  is  very  good  on 
such  superficial  aspects  of  the 
technology.)  We  see  racing  drivers 
recording  themselves  at  high  speed, 
and  then  see  greying  executives,  safe 
at  a conference  table,  wearing  test 
versions  of  the  gadget,  swaying  their 
torsos  to  allow  for  sharp  curves  taken 
at  near  two  hundred  m.p.h.  And 
there's  an  excellent,  completely 
automated  production  line  where  the 
final  version  of  the  gadget  ends  up 
being  produced,  thanks  to  naughty 
Cliff  Robertson's  selling  out  to  the 
military.  All  this  and  much  more 
besides  is  great  fun.  * 

1 think  the  most  effective  scene 
in  the  film,  though,  it  is  the 
grimmest;  it's  when  Fletcher  dies  of  a 
heart  attack,  quite  horribly  and  in 
great  detail.  I wonder  whether  anyone 
has  sued  the  producers  for  inducing  a 
similar  attack.  The  thing  is 
extraordinarily  well  done,  and 
Fletcher's  skilled  writhings  and 
crampings  are  so  convincingly 
portrayed  that  afterward,  during 
dinner,  I noticed  myself  displaying 


the  teensiest,  itsy-bitsyiest 
hypochondria  regarding  my  chest 
region — though  it  probably  had  more 
to  do  with  the  lasagna. 

The  big  schtick  of  Brainstorm  is 
that  Ms.  Fletcher  manages,  in  spite  of 
feeling  just  awful,  to  record  her 
demise,  and  the  gadget  continues  to 
record  her  for  some  time  after  that. 
What,  if  anything,  is  recorded?  Well, 
that's  what  Mr.  Walken  is  determined 
to  find  out,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Robertson 
and  the  government  of  the  United 
States  of  America.  (We  must  take  it 
on  trust,  but  it  would  seem  that 
under  his  cool,  disinterested  exterior 
there  beats  the  fiery  heart  of  a 
modern-day  Galileo.)  I would  love  to 
tell  you  what  he  eventually  finds,  as 
it  is  so  funny,  but  I do  not  wish  to 
spoil  this  film  for  children.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  I hope  sincerely  that  God 
has  other  plans  for  us.  Myself,  I 
would  prefer  the  Long  Island 
Expressway,  or  even  the  Los  Angeles 
Freeway — which  I suspect  may  have 
been  the  direct  inspiration  for  the 
creators  of  Brainstorm. 

Or  maybe  it  was  a Lava-lamp. 

Do  you  suppose  it  could  have  been  a 
Lava-lamp? 

The  last  film  must  be  viewed  in 
an  Einsteinian  light  to  qualify  for  this 
column,  since  it's  a science  fiction 
genre  film  in  all  its  aspects  save  one: 
it  is  history.  It  happened. 

The  rockets  are  special-effect 
rockets,  the  spacesuits  are  costumes, 
space  itself  is  a visual  effect,  and 


everybody  in  it  but  JFK  and  Eric 
Sevareid  is  played  by  an  actor  (which 
is  a serious  flaw,  as  the  Sevareid  part 
should  by  all  rights  have  been  an 
actor  impersonating  Walter  Cronkite). 
And  yet  The  Right  Stuff  more  or  less 
took  place. 

"More  or  less"  because  one  of 
the  outstanding  aspects  of  the  movie 
is  its  lack  of  believability.  Its 
simplistic  motivation  and  two- 
dimensional  cfiaracters  both  tend  to 
remind  you  of  far  too  many  science 
fiction  efforts. 

Are  we  supposed  to  buy  these 
simple-minded  heroes?  Are  we 
supposed  to  accept  these  buffoons 
presented  as  world  leaders?  Are  the 
ninnies  presented  as  NASA  scientists 
to  be  accepted  for  a minute  as  flesh 
and  blood,  or  are  they  only  the 
comic  walk-ons  they  appear  to  be? 

Take  The  Right  Stuff's  portrait  of 
Lyndon  Baines  Johnson  as  played  by 
Donald  Moffat,  written  and  directed 
by  Philip  Kaufman,  and  supposedly 
based  on  a book  by  Tom  Wolfe, 
which,  if  it's  l:)ased  accurately,  would 
indicate  Wolfe  has  somewhat  lost  his 
light  touch.  Now,  1 am  not  and 
never  have  been  a fan  of  LBJ.  Quite 
the  contrary.  Very  much  the 
contrary.  Very  very  much  the 
contrary.  However,  I confess  I was 
shocked  at  the:  grotesque  crudeness 
with  which  he's  mocked  in  this  film. 

I have  never  ever  seen  an  ex- 
President,  including  Nixon,  for  God's 
sake,  presenteci  in  such  cartoon  form 
in  a work  claiming  to  be — as  The 
Right  Stuff  does — serious  drama.  I 
mean,  this  Johnson  is  so  bad  that 
you  end  up  less  offended  at  him  than 
at  his  mocken..  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I actually  felt  sorry  for  the 
bastard. 

Then  there  are  odd  evasions, 
such  as  not  referring  to  Wernher  Von 
Braun  by  name.  He  is  only  "Chief 
Scientist"  in  the  credits,  but  he  looks 
and  talks  like  Wernher,  and  he  even 
quotes  famous  quotes  from  him. 
Maybe  it's  because  they  wanted  to 
have  this  kooky  Kraut  running  all  the 
way  through  the  picture  so  you 
wouldn't  get  confused. 

And  the  jingoism— ah,  the 
jingoism!  It  is  a species  of  jingoism  I 
have  not  encountered  for  many, 
many  years.  It  is  the  sort  you  never 
hear  these  days.  At  least  till  now. 

I really  tfiink,  all  in  all,  I much 
prefer  the  science  fiction  movies 
which  are  fiction. 

They're  much  less  frightening.  10 


"Presented  In  cartoon  form  ..."  Donald  Moffat  plays  a cantankerous 
Lyndon  Johnson  In  The  Right  Stuff,  which  caricatures  almost  everyone  but 
the  astronauts  themselves. 


16  Twilight  Zone 


O T H . E R 


O N S 


“Crammed  with  action,  violence,  and  foliage. " Silent  screen  star  Frank 
Merrill  portrayed  the  ape  man  in  Tarzan  the  Tiger  (1929),  when  men  were 
men,  women  were  victims,  and  gorillas  looked  like  rugs. 


l^stalgia 

by  Ron  Goulart 

Urban  Tales 
of  Tarzan 

Every  few  Christmases,  in  the 
midst  of  gif tw  rapping  the 
latest  electronic  miracle  or 
speculating  on  how  far  I can  safely 
overdraw  our  checking  account,  I 
find  m.yself  thinking  about  Edgar  Rice 
Burroughs.  He  and  his  most  famous 
creation  are  not  traditional  Yuletide 
figures,  but  I recall  him  because,  for 
a while  during  my  adolescence,  ERB 
and  I exchanged  greeting  cards  each 
year.  The  reason  I admired  him  was 
simple;  he  had  invented  one  of  my 
favorite  heroes— although  I must 
admit  I was  a Tarzan  fan  several 
years  before  I had  any  idea  there 
were  novels  about  him  by  a fellow 
named  Burroughs. 

I first  encountered  the  ape  man 
at  the  movies.  Burroughs  created 
Tarzan  back  before  World  War  I,  and 
his  jungle  superman  made  his  debut 
in  the  October  1912  issue  of  Munsey's 
All-Story  pulp  magazine.  That  initial 
novel,  Tarzan  of  the  Apes,  found  its 
way  into  hardcovers  in  1914  (the 
publisher  was  a Chic.ago  house  with 
the  melodious  name  of  McClurg)  and 
onto  the  screen,  under  the  same  title, 
in  1918.  I myself  came  along  in  1933. 
Since  it  took  me  a while  to  get 
acclimated,  I didn't  discover  Tarzan 
until  three  or  four  years  later. 

The  definitive  Tarzan  of  the 
Talkies  was  Johnny  Weissmuller.  Not 
an  actor  but  a record-breaking 
swimmer,  Weismuller  was  in  his  late 
twenties  when  he  first  donned  the 
loincloth  for  MGM's  Tarzan  the  Ape 
Man  in  1932.  It's  said  that  he  beat 
out  such  other  contenders  for  the  role 
as  Tom  Tyler,  Joel  McCrea,  Johnny 
Mack  Brown,  and  Clark  Gable. 

(Gable  as  Tarzan  presents  endless 
possibilities  for  fantasizing.  One 
pictures  a moustached  ape  man 
declaring,  "Frankly,  Jane,  I don't  give 
a damn.")  W.  S.  Van  Dyke  directed, 
and  Maureen  O'Sullivan  was  cast  as 
Tarzan's  mate.  Van  Dyke,  by  the 
way,  also  directed  The  Thin  Man  for 
MGM  in  1934,  meaning  that  he  gave 
audiences  two  of  the  most  famous 
movie  couples  of  the  decade,  Tarzan 
and  Jane  and  Nick  and  Nora  Charles. 


MGM's  Tarzan  was  not  the 
articulate,  multilingual  chap  ERB  had 
been  writing  about  for  the  past  two 
decades.  Rather,  he  was  a primitive 
hunk  not  much  more  versed  in 
human  speech  than  your  average 
gorilla.  "My  lines  read  like  a 
backward  two-year-old  talking  to  his 
nurse,"  Weissmuller  later  complained. 
You  suspect,  though,  that  the  major 
reasons  for  making  this  screen 
ape  man  less  than  fluent  were 
Weissmuller's  slightly  flutey  voice  and 
his  evident  inability  to  get  conviction 
into  any  line  of  dialogue  containing 
more  than  a half  dozen  words.  But 
for  swimming,  fighting  man  and 
beast,  rescuing  Jane,  and  swinging 
through  trees,  you  couldn't  beat  him. 

I have  never  seen  any  of  the 
screen  incarnations  of  Tarzan  that 
came  before  the  Weissmuller  version. 
But  just  the  names  of  the  actors  who 
portrayed  the  ape  man  in  silent 
and  early  sound  days  make  up  a 
fascinating  list:  Elmo  Lincoln,  Gene 
Foliar,  Frank  Merrill,  James  Pierce, 
and  P.  Dempsey  Tabler.  It  would've 
been  fun  to  be  an  autograph  hunter 
in  the  1920s  and  approach  this  latter 
actor.  "Pardon  me,  but  aren't  you 
P.  Dempsey  Tabler?" 

As  I recall,  the  first  Tarzan  film 
I saw  was  Tarzan  Escapes.  The  third 
in  MGM's  Weissmuller  series,  it  was 
released  in  1936.  Unless  my 
neighborhood  cinema  palace  got  it 
late,  I was  but  three  years  old  and 
no  taller  than  a chimpanzee  when  1 
got  my  initial  look  at  the  jungle  lord. 
By  the  early  1940s,  after  I had 
ingested  Tarzan  Finds  a Son,  Tarzan's 
Secret  Treasure,  Tarzan's  New  York 
Adventure,  Tarzan  Triumphs,  and 
Tarzan's  Desert  Mystery,  I was  a 


confirmed  ape  man  addict.  These 
movies,  crammed  with  action, 
violence,  and  foliage,  were  vastly 
entertaining  to  me  in  those  days.  I 
remember  sitting  there  in  the  musky 
matinee  darkness,  giggling  and 
guffawing  at  the  droll  antics  of  Cheta 
the  chimpanzee. 

But  there  was  more  than 
entertainment  involved;  I had  a 
strong  desire  to  be  Tarzan.  Not  only 
because  it  meant  you  could  run 
around  all  day,  climb  trees  or 
whatever,  and  never  have  to  worry 
abouf  getting  your  school  clothes 
dirty  or  torn,  but  also  because 
Weissmuller  always  seemed  so 
damned  competent.  Very  articulate  he 
wasn't,  but  the  guy  could  do 
anything  with  his  hands:  make  a bow 
and  arrow,  skin  a lion,  catch  a 
crocodile,  do  all  sorts  of  nifty  things 
with  a knife  and  never  once  cut 
himself.  (I  couldn't  even  make  a balsa 
wood  airplane  without  slicing  two 
fingers  for  every  hunk  of  wood.) 

But  if  I couldn't  be  Tarzan,  the 
notion  of  having  him  as  a relative 
was  also  appealing — as  a father,  the 
sort  who  was  never  too  busy  to  take 
you  on  a picnic,  or  an  uncle,  maybe. 
Of  course,  I was  what  was  known  in 
those  days  as  a finicky  eater,  and 
had  my  mother  ever  said,  "Well, 
here's  Uncle  Tarzan  with  a fresh- 
killed  antelope  for  dinner,"  I might 
have  fled  rather  than  jumped  for  joy. 

I suppose  I ought  to  say 
something  about  the  supposed  racism 
of  these  films,  except  that  it  wasn't 
something  I was  aware  of  at  the 
time.  To  me  the  Africa  of  the  1930s 
and  '40s  Tarzan  movies  was  a 
fantasyland  no  more  based  on  reality 
than  was  Oz.  It  was  a place  with  an 


Twilight  Zone  17 


a 


infinite  number  of  out-of-the-way 
corners.  Somebody  was  always  losing 
an  ancient  city  or  a vanished 
civilization  there.  More  strange  cults 
could  be  fit  into  it  than  you  were 
likely  to  find  in  all  of  Southern 
California.  Yet,  while  frought  with 
more  than  its  share  of  large-scale 
dangers,  Hollywood  Africa  seemed 
relatively  free  of  some  of  the  minor 
annoyances  of  everyday  woodland 
life.  Biting  insects  were  infrequent,  as 
were  plants  that  caused  skin  rashes  oi 
other  allergic  reactions.  There  must've 
been  a lot  of  pollen  floating  around, 
too,  but  you  rarely  saw  Tarzan 
sneeze. 

Working  my  way  toward  ERB's 
original  prose  version  of  his  ape  man, 
I next  encountered  the  jungle  lord  in 
the  funny  papers.  Tarzan  had  come 
to  the  comic  pages  as  a daily  strip  in 
1929;  a Sunday  page  was  added  in 
1931.  The  dailies,  for  several  years, 
were  anonymous  adaptions  of  the 
novels,  and  originally  there  were  no 
lowbrow  dialogue  balloons  or  rowdy 
POW!  sound  effects  to  be  seen.  The 
copy,  sedately  set  in  type,  ran  below 
the  pictures.  Hal  Foster,  a seasoned 
advertising  illustrator  by  then,  drew 
the  first  sequences.  Having  little  faith 
in  comics  and  even  less  love  for 
Tarzan,  he  soon  dropped  the  project, 
and  a far  less  gifted  fellow  named 
Rex  Maxon  took  over  the  drawing  of 
the  daily  and  the  Sunday.  Burroughs, 
who'd  originally  wanted  pulp 
illustrator  J.  Allen  St.  John  for  the 
job,  never  thought  much  of  Maxon's 
rendering  of  his  hero.  Since  the 
feature  syndicate  had  the  final  say, 
though,  all  he  could  do  was  write 
grumbling  letters  to  the  syndicator. 
These  may  have  had  some  effect, 
because  Foster  was  eventually  wooed 
back  to  do  the  Sunday  page. 

To  me,  no  Prince  Valiant 
admirer,  Foster's  Sunday  Tarzans 
feature  the  best  work  he  ever  did. 
They're  impressively  and  ambitiously 
drawn,  yet  have  a loose  and  casual 
feel.  Nothing  daunted  him,  and  Foster 
could  draw  ancient  Egyptian 
civilizations  surviving  in 
contemporary  Africa,  Viking  pirates, 
prehistoric  monsters  on  the  rampage, 
or  even  a foxhunt  in  rural  England. 


"For  swimming,  fighting,  rescuing  Jane,  and  swinging  through  trees,  you 
couldn't  beat  him."  Johnny  Weissmuller  was  the  screen’s  best-known  Tarzan. 
Left,  poster  from  a 1942  adventure;  above,  publicity  shot  from  Tarzan  Finds  a 
Son  0939),  with  Maureen  O’Sullivan,  Johnny  Sheffield,  and  Cheta.  (In  the 
books,  Tarzan’s  simian  pal  is  called  Nkima.) 


When  he  left  the  feature  in  the 
middle  1930s,  he  was  replaced  by 
Bume  Hogarth. 

Back  in  the  thirties  and  forties  I 
saved  the  Sunday  pages  and  clipped 
the  dailies,  although  I wasn't  as 
diligent  as  I might  have  been; 
sometimes  cutting  and  pasting  seemed 
too  much  like  a class  project.  Tarzan 
didn't  appear  in  the  paper  we  took  (a 
second  string  Hearst  sheet),  but  a 
kindly  great  aunt  and  uncle  saved  the 
comics  out  of  their  Oakland  Tribune 
for  me.  We'd  visit  them  at  least  once 
a month,  and  after  hitting  the  candy 
dish  I would  descend  into  the  cellar 
and  gather  up  the  latest  pile.  I doubt 
if  I noticed  Burroughs's  name  on  the 
movie  screen  credits  back  then,  so  the 
first  time  I became  aware  of  him 
must  have  been  as  the  alleged  author 
of  the  comic  strip.  In  the  late  1930s  1 
discovered  that  the  earlier  Tarzan 
Sundays  and  dailies  could  be  found 
reprinted  in  Tip  Top  Comics  and 
Comics  on  Parade.  I added  those  to 
my  collection,  along  with  the  Big 


Little  Books'  T.irzan  novels.  Those 
were  small  fat  books  that  recycled  the 
newspaper  dailies,  alternating  a 
picture  page  w:ith  a page  of  text. 

They  cost  a dime  and  were  three 
times  as  thick  as  a paperback  novel. 

Although  Tarzan  had  been 
around  in  real  novels  since  1914,  I 
didn't  personally  stumble  upon  them 
until  the  middle  1940s.  One  of  the 
reasons  for  this  was  the  fact  that 
Edgar  Rice  Burroughs,  like  L.  Frank 
Baum,  was  not  highly  thought  of  by 
the  librarians  of  my  youth,  and  I 
wasn't  a huntei'  of  second-hand 
bookstores  until  a few  years  later. 

One  fateful  day,  however,  while  my 
mother  was  shopping  in  an  Oakland 
department  stoi-e,  I wandered  into  the 
book  section.  There,  almost  hidden 
away  on  an  obscure  low  shelf, 
was  a row  of  ciuthentic  Tarzan 
novels.  The  store  had  probably  had 
them  in  stock  for  years.  Tarzan  and 
the  Ant  Men,  The  Beasts  of  Tarzan, 
Jungle  Tales  of  Tarzan,  Tarzan  and 
the  Jewels  of  Opar,  and  more,  all 


18  Twilight  Zone 


Weissmuller  contemplates  the  void  in  Tarzan  Escapes  (1936). 


written  by  the  same  man  who  signed 
his  name  to  the  comic  strip.  It  was 
like  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer, 
taking  a gander  at  the  Elgin  marbles, 
and  discovering  the  Pacific  Ocean  all 
rolled  into  one.  I knew  I must  read 
these  books,  each  and  evt'iy  one  of 
them.  The  major  snag  was  that  they 
cost  eighty-five  cents  apiece,  meaning 
1 could  only  buy  one  this  time.  After 
considerable  deliberation,  I selected 
Tarzan  and  the  Hidden  Empire.  I 
read  it  from  cover  to  cover.  It 
became  the  cornerstone  ol  my  ERB 
library,  and  Burroughs  one  of  my 
favorite  writers.  In  my  innocent  early 
teens  I firmly  believed  theit  the  three 
greatest  writers  ever  were  Edgar 
Rice  Burroughs,  Sax  Rohmer,  and 
A.  Merritt.  I had  yet  to  go  through 
my  Thomas  Wolfe,  Ray  Bradbury, 
and  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald  phases. 

As  I began  reading  the  novels,  I 
realized  that  I was  now  confronted 
with  a somewhat  different  Tarzan 
than  I'd  beeen  seeing  in  the  movies. 
This  was  not  the  “Ungawa  . . . Boy 
eat  ...  Tarzan  sleep  now  ' jungle 
man  of  the  silver  screen,  but  an 
ariticulate  fellow  who  could  speak 
several  languages  including  French, 
English,  and  Ape.  I took  to  him 
anyway.  The  comic  strip  had  already 
demonstrated  to  me  that  Tarzan 
could  be  a brilliant  conversationalist 
when  need  be.  I was  willing  to  accept 
him  in  several  variations  of  his 
natural  man  persona — just  so  long  as 
Burroughs  kept  the  lost  cities,  cruel 
villains,  lovely  maidens,  wild  savages, 
and  untamed  beasts  coming. 

In  preparing  to  do  this  article  I 
reread  some  of  the  Tarzan  novels.  As 
with  my  revisiting  of  Sax  Rohmer  a 
couple  of  issues  back,  I found  I was 
unable  to  recapture  the  feelings  the 
books  had  originally  given  me  three- 


plus  decades  ago.  Yet  I didn't  chortle 
over  Burroughs,  either.  He  often 
tended  to  write  as  though  he  were 
giving  you  the  synopsis  of  a much 
larger  work,  so  at  least  the  stories  are 
full  of  incident,  suspense,  and 
cliffhangers:  not  rich  in  detail,  but 
not  dull,  either.  I was  also  struck  by 
how  much  his  earliest  novels  sound 
like  nineteenth-century  fiction, 
especially  nineteenth-century  British 
fiction.  We  all  know  Burroughs  read 
Kipling  and  Haggard,  but  it  must  not 
have  stopped  there.  There's  a strong 
Victorian  flavor  to  novels  like  The 
Return  of  Tarzan,  and  indeed  Lord 
Greystoke  (the  ape  man's  true  title)  is 
very  much  a typical  Victorian  hero. 
He  is,  to  the  core,  a gentleman.  And 
just  as  true  gentlemen  like  Oliver 
Twist  and  David  Copperfield  survived 
in  the  urban  jungle  of  nineteenth- 
century  London,  so  Tarzan  survived 
in  the  jungles  of  Africa  and  proved 
eventually  that  he,  too,  was  a 
gentleman.  You  can  never  keep  a 
gentleman,  if  he's  honest  and  right- 
thinking,  from  rising  to  his  true  rank 
in  society. 

Another  thing  that  appealed  to 
me  in  the  Tarzan  novels  of  my  youth 
was  the  fantasy  element — the  strange 
creatures  who  lurked  in  the  lost 
cities,  the  journeys  to  places  like  the 
center  of  the  Earth.  Therefore  I 
branched  out  and  began  consuming 
ERB's  other  works.  I tracked  down 
most  of  the  John  Carter  of  Mars 
novels  (including  the  two  Big  Little 
Book  yarns),  read  all  the  Carson  of 
Venus  series,  and  then  tackled 
the  Pellucidar  books.  Still  a 
Burroughsophile  in  high  school,  I 
even  persuaded  one  of  my  English 
teachers  (his  name,  so  help  me,  was 
Orville  Sipe)  to  let  me  do  a book 
(continued  on  page  80) 


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Gave  Me  a Positive  Outlook 
on  Life.  By  Craigjensen 

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Twilight  Zone  19 


TWILIGHT  ZONE 
TRIVIA  QUIZ 


by  Gary  Frisch 

With  all  the  quizzes  we've  run  in  this  column — quizzes  on  horror* 
movie  heroes  and  fantasy  kids,  crosswords  and  acrostics  and  ? 
match-'em-ups — we  thought  it  was  high  time  for  something  a 
little  closer  to  home:  a quiz  in  honor  of  TZ's  third  anniversary  ^ 
and  the  celebrated  television  series  whose  name  we  bear.  ;; 
Submitted  for  your  approval,  a trivia  quiz  straight  out  of  .. . 

The  Twilight  Zone. 

Answers  on  page  80. 


II.  DRAMATIS  PERSONAE 

Match  the  character  with  the  episode  in  which  he/ she 
appeared. 

1.  Helen  Foley  a.  "The  Hitch-Hiker" 

2.  Brother  Jerome  b.  "Nightmare  as  a Child" 

3.  Janet  Tyler  c.  "The  Lonely" 

4.  Henry  Bemis  d.  "The  Whole  Truth" 

5.  James  Cony  e.  "The  Sixteen-Millimeter  Shrine" 

6.  Nan  Adams  f.  "The  Eye  of  the  Beholder" 

7.  Barbara  Jean  Trenton  g.  "Time  Enough  at  Last" 

8.  Pedott  h.  "A  Thing  About  Machines" 

9.  Bartlett  Finchley  i.  "The  Howling  Man" 

10.  Harvey  Hunnicut  j.  "What  You  Need" 


I.  TITLE  TURMOIL 


Complete  each  of  the  following 
Twilight  Zone  titles. 

1.  "A  Stop  at " 

2.  "Nervous  Man  in  a m " 

3.  "Long  Live " 

4.  " Is  Coming" 

5.  "The  Trouble  with " 

6.  " and  the  Graves" 

7.  "The Man" 

8.  "Showdown  with " 

9.  " on  Doomsday" 

10.  "The  Last  Night  of  a ' 


III.  FACTS  AND  FIGURES 

1.  How  many  episodes  of  The  Twi- 
light Zone  were  made? 

2.  How  many  episodes  did  Rod 
Serling  pen? 

3.  Which  episode  was  written  by 
science  fiction  great  Ray 
Bradbury? 

4.  What  two  companies  supplied 
Rod  Serling's  wardrobe  for  The 
Twilight  Zone! 

5.  Which  of  the  following  elements 
has  never  been  seen  in  a Twilight 
Zone  opening? 

a.  Einstein's  Theory  of  Relativity 

b.  An  hourglass 

c.  An  eyeball 

d.  A window  shattering 

e.  A clock 

6.  In  which  episode  did  Burt 


Reynolds  appear?  Zone  had  only  one  character  and 

7.  Name  the  pilot  episode  of  the  just  one  line  of  dialogue? 

series.  When  did  it  air?  13.  Which  of  the  following  entries 

8.  Name  the  final  episode.  When  did  cannot  be  found  in  The  Twilight 

it  air?  Zone  file  cabinet? 

9.  Which  one  of  the  following  a.  Baseball,  under  "B" 

phrases  did  Rod  Serling  never  say  b.  Superstition,  under  "S" 

on  The  Twilight  Zone!  c.  Mankind,  under  "M" 

a.  Submitted  for  your  approval  ...  d.  Ghost,  under  "G" 

b.  Witness  if  you  will  ...  C-  Phantom,  under  "P" 

c.  Consider  for  a moment  . . .,  14.  Name  the  episode  in  which  the 

d.  File  it  under  . . . characters  can  actually  hear  Rod 

e.  Case  in  point  . . . Serling  delivering  his  closing 

10.  How  many  episodes  featured  the  narration. 

spaceship  from  the  movie  15.  What  show  did  Rod  Serling  host 

Forbidden  Planet!  after  The  Twilight  Zone! 

11.  In  how  many  episodes  did  Robby  16.  Name  the  two  episodes  that 

the  Robot,  from  the  same  movie,  starred  Ed  Wynn. 

appear?  17.  Who  composed  the  familiar  theme 

12.  Which  episode  of  The  Twilight  music  for  The  Twilight  Zone! 


IV.  ON  THE  SET 

Match  the  following  people  with  their 
behind-the-scenes  jobs. 


V.  THE  WRITERS 

Match  the  following  episodes  with  their  writers. 


1.  Buck  Houghton 

2.  William  Tuttle 

3.  Virgil  Beck 

4.  George  T.  Clemens 

5.  Bernard  Herrmann 


a.  Makeup 

b.  Music 

c.  Producer 

d.  Director  of  Photography 

e.  Special  Effects 


1.  "A  Piano  in  the  House" 

2.  "The  Prime  Mover" 

3.  "It's  a Good  Life" 

4.  "Little  Girl  Lost" 

5.  "A  Game  of  Pool" 


a.  Rod  Serling 

b.  Charles  Beaumont 

c.  Richard  Matheson 

d.  George  Clayton  Johnson 

e.  Earl  Hamner,  Jr. 


VI.  STAR  STRUCK 

Name  the  episode  or 
episodes  in  which 
each  of  the  follow- 
ing stars  appeared. 

1.  Claude  Akins 

2.  Orson  Bean 

3.  Charles  Bronson 

4.  Art  Carney 

5.  James  Coburn 

6.  Robert  Duvall 

7.  Peter  Falk 

8.  Buster  Keaton 

9.  Jack  Klugman 

10.  Lee  Marvin 

11.  . Kevin  McCarthy 

12.  Burgess  Meredith 

13.  Agnes  Moorehead 

14.  Billy  Mumy 

15.  Robert  Redford 

16.  William  Shatner 

17.  Jack  Warden 

18.  Dennis  Weaver 

19.  Fritz  Weaver 


VII.  BITS  AND  PIECES 

1.  Name  Martin  Sloan's  hometown 
in  "Walking  Eiistance." 

2.  What  name  does  the  devil  go 
‘ under  in  "Escape  Clause"? 

3.  In  "Perchance  to  Dream,"  name 
the  woman  Edward  Hall  has 
nightmares  about. 

4.  Name  the  ship  that  faces  doom 
on  "Judgment  Night." 

5.  Name  the  thrive  people  Arch 
Hammer  impersonates  in  "The 
Four  of  Us  Are  Dying." 

6.  Who  is  "Old  Leadbottom"? 

7.  In  "The  After  Hours,"  what  item 
is  Marsha  White  looking  for  in 
the  department  store?  , 

8.  Name  the  last-place  ball  club 
featured  in  "The  Mighty  Casey." 

9.  In  what  town  are  the  newlyweds 
stranded  in  "Nick  of  Time"?  ' 


10.  In  "The  Whole  Truth,"  who  does 
Harvey  Hunnicut  finally  unload 
the  haunted  car  on? 

11.  Name  the  gangster  Ace  Larsen 
gambles  with  in  "The  Prime 
Mover." 

12.  In  the  episode  "Two,"  what  is  the 
only  word  out  of  the  woman's 
mouth? 

13.  In  "Death's  Head  Revisited,"  what 
do  the  Dachau  victims  sentence 
Captain  Lutze  to  for  his  crimes? 

14.  In  "The  7th  is  Made  Up  of 
Phantoms,"  who  are  the  three 
soldiers  to  relive  Custer's  Last 
Stand? 

15.  In  "Stopover  in  a Quiet  Town," 
what  "town"  do  Bob  and  Millie  * 
Frazier  wake  up  in? 

16.  In  "I  Am  the  Night — Color  Me 
Black,"  what  is  the  cause  of  the 
eerie  darkness? 


VIII.  AND  NOW  A WORD 
FROM  ROD  SERLING 

In  which  episodes  did 

Rod  Serling  say  the 

following  lines  in  his 

narration? 

1.  "They  say  a dream  takes 
only  a second  or  so,  and 

* yet  in  that  second  a man 
can  live  a lifetime." 

2.  "Portrait  of  a man  who 
thinks  and  thereby  gets 
things  done." 

3.  "The  best  laid  plans  of 
mice  and  men  ..." 

4.  "Uniquely  American 
institution  known  as  the 
neighborhood  bar." 

5.  "The  word  that  Mrs. 
Bronson  is  unable  to  put 
into  the  hot,  still,  sodden 
air  is  'doomed.'" 

. 6.  "Practical  joke  perpetrated 
by  Mother  Nature  and  a 
combination  of  improb- 
able events." 

7.  "This  is  the  face  of 
terror." 

8.  "As  must  be  obvious,  this 
is  a house  hovered  over 
by  Mr.  Death." 

9.  "Travelers  to  unknown 
regions  would  be  well- 
advised  to  take  along  the 
family  dog." 


Courtesy  Frar^k  D.  Harden 


D 


M 


N 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE’  REVISITED 

Back  in  August  1982  we  ran  a bizarre  little  piece 
called  "The  Lighthouse,"  Robert  Bloch's  completion  of  a 
story  fragment  from  the  papers  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Now, 
inspired  by  this  "posthumous  collaboration,"  another 
modern-day  writer,  Richard  A.  Lloyd,  has  tried  his  own 
hand  at  completing  the  fragment  and  has  adapted  it  for  the 
stage.  The  Lighthouse  had  its  premiere  late  last  fall  at  a 
student-run  theater  at  Rutgers.  Right,  the  striking  poster 
by  Debs  Lloyd. 


Ccbom 

ptiAi/rJA 


OTHER 

Etc. 
Etc. 

READERS’  POLL 

Thanks  to  all  our  readers  who 
wrote  in  naming  their  five  favorite 
Twilight  Zone  episodes  in  response  to 
our  December  '83  poll.  The  shows,  in 
order  of  preference,  are  listed  in  Carol 
Serling's  column  on  page  8. 

Some  readers  provided  reasons  for 
their  particular  selections.  "1  went  with 
those  that  held  up  the  best  to  repeated 
viewings,"  wrote  Greg  Cox  of  Kent, 
Washington,  "strong  dramatic  stuff,  as 
opposed  to  one-shot  shock  endings  like 
'Eye  of  the  Beholder'  or  'The  Aftej 
* Hours.'  D.avid  C.  Duncan  of 
Columbia,  Tennessee,  punningly 
singled  out  "The  Invaders"  because  of 
the  "colossal  performance  by  the  late 
Agnes  Moorehead." 

Wrote  Howard  Baldwin  of  Palo 
Alto,  California:  "The  very  best  TZ 
ever  filmed  was  'Long  Live  Walter 
Jameson,'  because  it  had  three  seminal 
elements  of  the  series.  The  first  was 
immortality;  death  and  the  cheating  of 
death  and  the  avoidance  of  growing 
old  ran  deep  in  the  series.  In  fact,  most 


of  the  others  on  my  first  tally  involved 
those  themes — 'Walking  Distance,' 
'Escape  Clause,'  'Night  Call,'  'Nothing 
in  the  Dark.'  At  the  same  time,  Walter 
Jameson  engages  in  a sort  of  time 
travel,  a theme  that  appeared  in  two 
other  favorites,  'Back  There'  and  'The 
Odyssey  of  Flight  33.'  Finally,  the 
show  has  the  perfectly  believable  twist 
ending." 

Bill  Lefelvre  of  Port  Colborne, 
Ontario,  explained  why  he'd  selected 
"A  Stop  at  Willoughby":  "I  remember 
watching  that  episode  and  pleading 
with  Gart  Williams  to  get  off  the  train 
when  it  stopped  at  Willoughby  the 
second  time.  I was  actually  yelling  at 
the  tv,  'Get  off!  Get  off!'  I was  afraid 
that  the  show  was  going  to  be  a lesson 
about  missed  opportunities,  and  I 
would  have  been  so  upset  if  he  hadn't 
gotten  off  the  train  when  he  had  the 
chance." 

Vernon  Belcome  of  Houghton, 
Michigan,  went  further  and  listed  his 
least  favorite  episodes;  "All  'mirror' 
episodes,  almost  all  hour-long 
episodes,  'The  After  Hours,'  'Black 


Leather  Jackets,'  and  'Come  Wander 
with  Me.'" 

Many  readers  found  the  choice  a 
hard  one.  "It  is  an  impossible  feat,  " 
wrote  Bill  J.  Banks  of  Bellflower, 
California.  "1  tried  to  list  my  five 
favorite  shows,  but  when  the  list  of 
twenty-five  or  so  couldn't  be  narrowed 
any  further,  I gave  up."  Barry  1. 
Grauman  of  Long  Branch,  New  Jersey, 
listed  five  shows  (starting  with 
"Walking  Distance"),  but  added: 
"There  is  also  a sublist  of  129 
'cherished'  shows — not  counting  the 
hours,  since  I haven't  seen  them  since  I 
was  a toddler." 

Wrote  read«;r  Robert  Burroughs  of 
his  list:  "There  are  at  least  twenty 
more  episodes  that  1 enjoy  just  as 
much.  In  fact,  there  is  not  one  bad' 
episode  in  the  whole  series.  That's  why 
it's  become  such  a classic."  He  had 
kind  words  for  Twilight  Zone — The 
Movie,  and  added:  "I  only  wish  that 
Rod  could  be  alive  to  see  how  much 
joy  he  is  still  bringing  to  millions  of 
people  who  are  just  discovering  The 
Twilight  Zone  for  the  first  time." 


‘ICEMAN’  COMETH 


When  we  ran  a preview  two  issues  back  of  the  new 
sf  film  Iceman,  about  a prehistoric  man  discovered  frozen 
but  alive  in  the  Arctic  icefields,  we  h^d  no  idea  that  we 
were  walking,  so  to  speak,  on  thin  ice— until  we  got  a 
letter  from  a Mr.  Frank  D.  Hansen  of  Rollingstone, 


Minnesota,  who  describes  himself  as  "curator  of  the  world- 
famous  Homo  pongoides  (i.e.  apelike  man),  more 
commonly  known  as  the  Minnesota  Iceman  or  the 
Mysterious  Creature  in  Ice."  Hansen  contends  that  it  was 
his  creature — which  he  calls  "the  most  talked  about,  the 
most  written  about,  and  the  most  controversial  discovery 
of  our  time" — that  inspired  the  movie:  "It  is  obvious  that 
the  script  was  written  to  'cash  in'  on  the  worldwide 
publicity  and  notoriety  already  created  by  this  unusual 
specimen." 

The  creature  itself  is  six  feet  long,  hairy,  and— 
shades  of  The  Thing! — encased  in  a block  of  ice.  Hansen 
has  exhibited  it  at  shopping  centers  throughout  the  U.S. 
and  Canada  (at  fifty  cents  a view)  on  behalf  of  its  real 
owner,  whom  he  describes  as  "a  very  well-known 
Hollywood  personality."  He  enclosed  a color  photo  of  it 
(left),  as  well  as  a 1981  clipping  from  the  Washington  Post, 
whose  reporter  noted  "a  distinct  smell  of  decay"  above  the 
creature's  ice-filled  coffin. 

Since,  according  to  Hansen,  the  owner  refuses  to  let 
scientists  remove  the  creature  from  the  ice  for  analysis,  it's 
hard  to  know  just  how  seriously  to  take  all  this,  except  to  ■ 
say  that,  judging  from  what  we  can  see  of  the  creature's 
face,  we  wouldn't  care  to  meet  its  living  relatives  on  a 
dark  night  in  Siberia. 


22  Twilight  Zone 


Copyright  © 1983  by  Maxim  Jakubowski  and  Malcolm  Edwards.  AB  rights  reserved, 


KA-ZAR,  KI-GOR,  AND  COMPANY 


As  the  Wallechinskys  showed— and,  come  to  think  of  it,  Esquire  before 
them — all  the  world  loves  a list,  and  sf/fantasy  fans  are  presumably  no 
exception.  For  those  among  you  intrigued  by  items  such  as  "Ten  SF  Writers 
Who  Have  Appeared  in  Movies,"  "Fifteen  Nobel  Prizewinners  Who  Have 
Written  Science  Fiction  and  Fantasy,"  and  "Fifteen  Stories  of  Sex  Between 
Humans  and  Robots,"  two  Brits,  Maxim  Jakubowski  and  Malcolm  Edwards, 
have  compiled  The  SF  Book  of  Lists  (Berkley,  $7.95),  nearly  four  hundred 
pages  of  similarly  vital  information.  Not  all  the  lists  are  terribly  interesting 
(e.g.  the  endless  catalogue  of  Hugo  and  Nebula -winners),  and  there  are  the 
inevitable  errors  ("Zootiriique"  for  Clark  Ashton  Smith's  "Zothique,"  "By  His 
Footsteps"  for  Robert  A.  Ffeinlein’s  "By  His  Bootstraps"),  but  many  of  the  lists 
are  good  frivolous  fun  and,  for  those  of  us  here  in  Manhattan,  make  terrific 
elevator  reading.  Two  examples,  the  first  in  honor  of  Ron  Goulart's  column 
on  page  17: 


Favorite  Pulp  Titles 

Ghouls  of  the  Green  Death 
(Wyatt  Blassingame,  1934) 

Death  Calls  from  the  Madhouse 
(Hugh  B.  Cave,  1935) 

The  House  of  Doomed  Brides 
(Ray  Cummings,  1935) 

The  Chair  Where  Terror  Sat 
(Arthur  J.  Burks,  1936) 

Moaning  on  the  Stjx 
(Arthur  J.  Burks,  1938) 

Dance  of  the  Blood  Drinkers 
(J.  O.  Quinliven,  1938) 

Black  Pool  for  Hell  Maidens 
(Hal  K.  Wells,  1938) 


Slave  of  the  Swamp  Satan 
(Dale  Clark,  1938) 

Nameless  Brides  of  Forbidden  City 
(Frederick  C.  Davis,  1939) 

Pawn  of  Hideous  Desire 
(Ray  Cummings,  1939) 

When  the  Death-Bat  Flies 
(Norvell  W.  Page,  1937) 

Mistress  of  the  Murder  Madmen 
(Vernon  James,  1939) 

Death's  Lips  are  Hot 
(Nathan  Schachner,  1938) 

The  Goddess  of  Crawling  Horrors 
(Wyatt  Blassingame,  1937) 

Food  for  the  Fungus  Lady 
(Ralston  Fields,  1939) 


Coming  of  the  Faceless  Killers  The  Wind  Monster  Wants  Me 

(Francis  James,  1933)  (Gabriel  Wilson,  1938) 


SEEK  AND  YE 
SHALL  FIND  DEPT. 

Last  issue  we  ran  a letter  from 
reader  Alan  Palmer  asking  if  anyone 
could  identify  the  big-band  music  used 
in  the  opening  scenes  of  the  Twilight 
Zone  episode  "Where  Is  Everybody?" 

Reader  Jim  Doherty  of  Chicago 
has  already  come  up  with  the  answer — 
thanks  to  his  work  on  an  article  about 
Twilight  Zone  composer  Bernard 
Herrmann.  "In  my  research,"  writes 
Doherty,  "I  obtained  cue  sheets  from 
the  American  Society  of  Composers, 
Authors  and  Publishers  (ASCAP)  for 
the  episodes  I was  going  to  discuss. 

Cue  sheets  are  listings  of  every  piece  of 
music  used  in  a particular  film  or 
television  show,  including  composers' 
names  and  timings  for  each  music  cue 
used. 

"According  to  the  cue  sheet  for 
'Where  Is  Everybody?',  the  big-band 
piece  is  entitled  'Turkish  Delight,' 
written  by  Eric  Cook.  Another  section 
of  this  piece  was  also  used  in  a later 
episode,  'The  Lonely,'  as  the  record 
playing  on  Jack  Warden's 
phonograph." 

Now  we  ask  you:  could  even  the 
Playboy  Advisor  have  come  up  with 
a better,  faster,  or  more  accurate 
answer  than  that? 


QUOTE 

"It  is  a perfectly  ordinary  Monday 
morning  in  October.  Richard  Lewis  is 
on  his  way  to  work  at  Colonial  Homes 
magazine.  He  enters  the  IND  subway 
station  at  Bergen  Street  in  Brooklyn. 
Richard  Lewis  doesn't  know  it,  but  he 
has  just  slipped  from  the  world  of  the 
living  into  the  Twilight  Zone." 

Opening  of  a hitherto  unknown 
Twilight  Zone  episode?  No,  it's 
Georgia  Dullea  in  the  New  York  Times, 
with  another  horrifying  tale  of  the 
New  York  transit  system. 


HISTORIC  ENCOUNTER 


No  photographer  was  on  hand  to 
record  the  moment  when  Peter  Cannon 
interviewed  the  great  American  horror  " 
writer  H.  P.  Lovecraft  in  his  Providence 
home  for  last  August's  TZ — though 
that's  hardly  surprising,  considering  that 
Lovecraft  died  in  1937  and  Cannon 
wasn't  born  till  1951.  (As  we  noted 
then,  the  interview  was  compiled 


from  Lovecraft's  letters.)  But  if  the 
encounter  could  not  be  preserved,  it 
can  still  be  imagined — and  now  it  has 
been,  thanks  to  Rhode  Island  artist 
Jason  Eckhardt  ("Something  About 
Cats,"  TZ  August  '82),  who  currently 
resides  in  a house  where  Lovecraft 
lived  and  who  has  clearly  been 
touched  by  his  spirit. 

Twilight  Zone  23 


Thanks  to  Kathleen  Murray 


t 


! 


Glenn  as  astronaut  Alan  Shepard  In  The  Right  Stuff  (inset), 
and  as  a being  known  as  Glaeken,  who’s  not  quite  as 
human  as  he  looks,  in  The  Keep. 


scon  GLENN: 

NOW  HE  CAN  SAY  NO 

LORENZO  CARCATERRA  TALKS  WITH 
THE  MAN  WHO'S  PLAYED  THE  DEVIL'S 
ALTER-EGO  AND  AMERICA'S  FIRST 
SPACE  JOCKEY, 

Scott  Glenn's  path  has  been  a strange  one.  From 
smalltown  newspaperman  to  burlesque  stage  manager  to 
the  man  who  ate  the  tequila  worm  in  Urban  Cowboy,  his 
career  has  led  him  down  a circuitous,  often  treacherous 
trail.  Now,  thanks  in  part  to  strong  performances  in  both 
The  Right  Stuff  and  Personal  Best  his  voyage  of  anonym- 
ity has  come  to  a screeching  halt,  landing  him  in  that 
strangest  of  places,  Hollywood,  v/ith  that  strangest  of  la- 
bels, Movie  Star,  pinned  to  his  chest. 

Glenn  is  tall,  quiet,  intense,  temporarily  blond-haired 
(he's  been  in  Tennessee  playing  opposite  Cissy  Spacek  in 
The  River,  a film  he  describes  as  "a  1980s  Grapes  of 
Wrath"),  and  as  surprised  as  anyone  over  the  new  direction 
his  life  has  taken.  Sitting  in  the  near-empty  coffee  shop  of 
an  overpriced  Manhattan  hotel,  he  butters  a croissant,  sips 
some  coffee,  and  talks  about  his  career,  his  new-found 
stardom,  and  his  new  film,  Mich.-iel  Mann's  The  Keep. 

TZ:  Could  you  please  explain  The  Keep  and  your  role 
in  it? 

Glenn:  Sometime  between  one  and  three  thousand  years 
ago  the  devil  incarnate  was  imprisoned  in  a monolithic 
stone  structure  called  The  Keep.  The  devil  is  one  half  of 
two  personalities.  The  flip  side  is  the  character  1 play,  a 
sort  of  cosmic  watchdog  named  Glaeken  who  waits  on 
earth  until  the  devil  is  let  loose.  When  a group  of  Nazis 
inadvertently  free  the  devil,  my  job  becomes  evident — kill 
him.  By  killing  him,  however.  I'll  be  committing  suicide, 
since  the  devil  is  just  another  aspect  of  my  personality. 
TZ:  One  of  the  ironies  of  the  film  seems  to  be  the  inter- 
play between  the  Nazis  and  the  devil. 

Glenn:  A mind  like  Adolf  Hitler,  or  the  characters  in  this 
film  who  represent  that  kind  of  mentality,  is  the  ripest 
field  for  the  devil  or  evil  to  move  into.  All  those  things — 
Hitler,  the  Nazi  Party— are  still  only  a pale  reflection  of 
pure  evil.  (Dne  threatens  the  fabric:  of  the  world,  the  other 
threatens  the  world  altogether. 

TZ:  Why  do  you  suppose  the  Nazis  and  the  devil  hold 
such  a fascination  for  us? 

Glenn:  The  whole  fascination  with  the  Nazi  thing  is  that 
something  so  horrible  could  come  out  of  an  ancient  Euro- 
pean culture  with  intellectual  and  artistic  credentials  the 
equal  of  any  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  people  that 
shoved  Jews  and  Gypsies  into  gas  furnaces  do  not  only 
have  the  blood  of  Hitler  running  through  their  veins — they 
have  the  blood  of  Einstein  and  Mozart,  too. 

TZ:  Was  it  difficult  moving  from  the  portrayal  of  an  astro- 
naut (Alan  Shepard  in  The  Right  Stuff)  to  someone  who's 
lived  for  nearly  two  thousand  ye.irs? 

Glenn:  No,  it  was  refreshing.  At  least  forty  percent  of  the 
footage  for  the  The  Right  Stuff  was  NASA  footage,  which 
meant  that  my  role  was  outside  tfie  character.  1 had  to  be 
exactly  as  he  was.  When  The  Keep  came  along,  I realized 
it  would  be  one-hundred-percent  invention,  which  was  fine 


24  Twilight  Zone 


with  me.  I didn't  have  to  begin  my  day  sitting  in  front  of 
videotape  equipment. 

TZ:  In  The  Keep,  how  long  does  it  take  for  the  devil  to 
make  an  appearance? 

Glenn:  The  film  takes  place  over  a three-day  period.  It 
takes  the  devil  that  long  to  materialize — and  as  he  does  so, 
he  essentially  develops  into  three  beings,  becoming  more 
and  more  human  until,  in  the  end,  he  is  a caricature  of 
me. 

TZ:  Are  you  happy  with  your  film  career  as  it's  progressed 
up  to  this  last  role? 

Glenn:  Now  I am.  Three  years  ago,  I couldn't  get  arrested. 
I didn't  really  start  working  until  I left  Los  Angeles  and 
moved  my  family  to  Idaho.  I was  prepared  to  do  Shake- 
speare in  the  Park— no  big  roles,  but  at  least  they'd  let  me 
do  it  my  way. 

TZ:  Are  you  now  in  a position  where  you  can  pick  and 
choose  the  roles  you  want? 

Glenn:  Five  years  ago,  I would  have  begged  for  three  lines 
on  Baretta.  Now  I've  got  thirty-five  scripts  at  home — all  of 
which  I've  said  no  to.  Now  / get  to  say  no,  not  them. 
After  Urban  Cowboy,  I stayed  away  from  playing  the 


tough  macho  guy,  even  though  Fred  Silverman  wanted  me 
for  a series  based  on  Dirty  Harry.  John  Milius  sent  me 
three  scripts,  all  similar  to  the  Urban  Cowboy  character. 
Instead,  I ran  into  Robert  Towne  and  I did  Personal  Best 
for  him. 

TZ:  Was  all  this  worth  giving  up  a newspaper  career  for? 
Glenn:  Yes.  I wasn't  all  that  good  at  it,  anyway.  I wanted 
to  be  a poet  writing  epic  poetry.  Instead,  I worked  as  a 
police  reporter  for  the  Kinosa  Daily  News  and,  after  a 
while,  began  to  feel  like  a ghoul.  You  had  to  interview 
people  whose  husband  had  just  been  killed  or  who  had 
lost  three  kids  in  a trailer  camp  fire,  and  you  had  to  ask 
questions— when  all  you  wanted  to  do  was  to  put  your 
arms  around  them.  I was  looking  at  human  suffering  and 
misery  and  making  my  living  off  it.  I didn't  like  it. 

TZ:  You've  been  called  the  next  Steve  McQueen.  Do  those 
sort  of  comparisons  bother  you? 

Glenn:  Someone  once  asked  Burt  Reynolds  how  he  felt  be- 
ing called  the  young  Brando.  He  said  it  was  better  than  be- 
ing called  the  young  Ethel  Merman.  I'd  rather  be  called  a 
young  Paul  Muni,  but  you  don't  always  get  what  you 
want.  (S 


U S POSTAL  SERVICE  STATEMENT  OF  OWNERSHIP,  MANAGEMENT  AND  CIRCULATION  (required  by  39  U.S.C.  3665)  1 . Title 
of  pubiicaiion  ROO  SERLINO’S  THE  TWILIGH'r  ZONE  MAGAZINE  1A  Publication  No  02796090  2.  Date  ot  Ming  Nov.  3,  1963  3. 
Frequency  of  iHue:  bimonttily  3A  No  of  issues  sublished  annually  6 36.  Annual  subscription  price  S15  4.  Complete  mailing  address 
of  known  office  of  publication  (not  printers)  80C  Second  Avenue.  New  York,  N.Y.  10017  S.  Complete  mailing  address  of  the  head- 
quaners  or  general  business  offices  of  ihe  publishers  (not  primers)  800  Second  Avenue.  New  York.  N.Y.  10017  6.  Full  names  and  com- 
plete mailing  address  of  publisher,  editor,  and  managing  editor:  Milton  J.  Cuevas,  Publisher,  600  Second  Avenue,  New  York.  N.Y. 
1(X)17,  T.E  0 Klein.  Editor,  8(X)  Second  Avenue,  New  York  10017,  Robert  Sabat.  Managing  Editor.  600  Second  Avenue,  New  York, 
N Y 10017  Owner  or  stockholders  owning  or  holding  1 percent  or  more  ot  total  amount  o(  stock:  TZ  Publications,  Inc  , 600  Second 
Avenue.  New  York.  N Y 10017,  Montcalm  Publishing  Corp.,  same  as  above,  Eric  Protter,  same  as  above.  Nils  Shapiro,  3420  Ocean 
Park  Blvd,  Santa  Monica.  CA  90405  6 Known  bondholders.  None  9 For  completion  by  nonprofit  organizations  authorized  to  mail  at 
special  rates.  Not  applicable  10  Extent  and  nature  ot  circulation.  Average  no.  copies  each  issue  during  preceding  12  months  A '^otal 


No.  copies  (net  press  run)  164,163  6 Paid  circulation  i.  Sales  through  dealers  and  earners,  street  vendors  and  counter  sales.  37,166  2. 
Mail  subscription  25,237  C.  Total  paid  circulation  (sum  of  1081  and  1062)62,405  0.  Free  distribution  by  mail,  carrier  or  other  means, 
samples,  complimentary,  and  other  free  copies  1 .203  E.  Total  distribution  (sum  of  C and  0)  63.606  F.  Copies  not  distributed  1 Office 
use.  left  over,  unaccounted,  spoiled  after  printing  1,531  2.  Return  from  news  agents  99.024  G.  Total  (sumof  E,  Ft  and  2— should  equal 
net  press  run  shown  in  A)  164.163  Actual  no.  copies  of  single  issue  published  nearest  to  Ming  date  A.  Total  no.  copies  (net  press  run) 
203.060  6.  Paid  circulation  1 Sales  thorugh  dealers  and  carriers,  street  vendors  and  counter  sales  41,396  2.'Mail  subscription  76,828 
C Total  paid  circulation  (sum  of  1061  and  1062)  1 20,224  D.  Free  distribution  by  mail,  carrier  or  other  means,  samples,  complimentary, 
and  other  free  copies  2.872  E.  Total  distribution  (sum  of  C and  0)  123.096  F.  Copies  not  distributed  1.  Office  use.  left  over,  unac- 
counted, spoiled  after  printing  2,360  2.  Return  from  news  agents  77,624  G.  Total  (sum  of  E,  Fl  and  2— should  equal  net  press  run 
shown  in  A)  203,080. 1 certify  that  Ihe  statements  made  by  me  above  are  correct  and  complete.  Signature  and  title  of  editor,  publisher, 
business  manager,  or  owner  MILTON  J CUEVAS,  PUBLISHER 


Workshc^  for 

3RD  ANNUAL  WORKSHOP 
FOR  F & SF  WRITERS 


James  Gunn,  Director 
Theodore  Sturgeon 
Ftederik  Pohl 
Brian  W.  Aldiss 


1ST  ANNUAL  WORKSHOP  FOR 
ARTISTS  AND  ILLUSTRATORS 
Hap  Henriksen,  Director 
Michael  Whelan 
Real  Musgrave 
James  Christiansen 


5TH  INTERNATIONAL  CONFER- 
ENCE ON  THE 
IN  THE  ARTS 


Fantastic 


MARCH  22-25,  1984 


Write  for  details: 

College  of  Humanities 
Florida  Atlantic  University 
Boca  Raton,  FL  33431 


Twilight  Zone  25 


TZ  INTERVIEW 

Burgess  Meredith: 
Multidimensional  Man 

THE  TWILIGHT  ZONE'S  MR.  DINGLE  TALKS  ABOUT  DOLPHINS, 

, 'THE  PENGUIN,'  AND  THAT  OTHER  DIMENSION  WHERE  THE  TRUTH  RESIDES. 


Interviewer  James  H.  Burns  reports: 

There  is  no  actor  better  associated 
with  The  Twilight  Zone  than  Burgess 
Meredith,  in  his  four  memorabie  seg- 
ments he  ient  the  program  an  imme- 
diate stature,  thanks  not  oniy  to  his  deft 
performances,  but  to  the  years  of  unpar- 
aiieied  experience  he  brought  with  him. 

Now  seventy-five,  Meredith  has  been 
a star  on  Broadway  (such  classic  shows 
as  WInterset  and  Teahouse  of  the 
August  Moon)  and  tv  (^Playhouse  90, 
Batman,  Gloria),  toured  with  prson 
Welles's  legendary  Mercury  Theatre,  and 
made  over  sixty  motion  pictures,  includ- 
ing the  narration  of  Twilight  Zone— The 
Movie.  His  honors  include  Oscar  and 
Golden  Globe  nominations  (Doy  of  the 
Locust,  Rocky),  Broadway's  Tony,  Emmy 
nominations  for  The  Last  Hurrah  and 
Johnny,  We  Hardly  Knew  Ye  (he  won  for 
Tall  Gunner  Joe),  and  an  award  from 
the  New  York  Drama  Critics— which  he 
shared  with  George  M.  Cohan.  He  is  also 
celebrated  as  a theatrical  producer  and 
director,  most  recently  for  a 1982  Dublin 
presentation  of  The  Women  of  James 
Joyce. 

When  not  busy  with  Hollywood  or  the 
stage,  Meredith  has  conducted  orches- 
tras, created— and  often  narrated— 
documentaries  and  short  subjects,  and 
judged  wine  festivals-  in  his  capacity  as  a 
noted  connoisseur.  He  has  been  married 
four  times  and  has  two  children. 

Clearly  Meredith  is  a renaissance 
man,  as  is  evidenced  by  his  current  pur- 
suits: finishing  a special  on  the  world's 
great  theaters  and  another  on  Robert 
Frost,  acting  in  an  episode  of  Shelley 
Duvall's  Faerie  Tale  Theatre  for  Show- 
time, and  preparing  a new  production  of 
Kurt  Weill's  Johnny  Johnson,  bound  for 
New  York.  It  is  only  fitting  that  along  the 
way  he  has  worked  with  some  of  the 
arts'  finest  practitioners— among  them 
Rod  Serling  himself. 

TZ:  What  was  your  initial  contact  with 
Rod  Serling? 

Meredith:  That  came  during  the  mak- 
ing of  the  first  episode  I did,  "Time 
Enough  at  Last,"  when  Rod  came  on 
the  set.  He  had  just  seen  some  rushes 
of  the  show,  which  made  him  very 


enthusiastic.  He  said,  "Hey,  you're 
wonderful.  Let's  do  more  shows  with 
you. " After  that.  Rod  wrote  a Twilight 
Zone  for  me  each  season.  Our  relation- 
ship wound  up  lasting  for  a long  time. 
And  of  course,  later  in  our  careers,  we 
both  did  a lot  of  voice-over  work. 

TZ:  Did  you  like  the  episode? 
Meredith:  Yes.  It  ultimately  proved  to 
be  the  most  successful  of  the  Twilight 
Zones  I acted  in. 

TZ:  You  once  said  that  one  of  your 
own  personal  regrets  was  that  you 
never  had  enough  time  for  reading. 
Did  that  give  you  a special  empathy 
with  your  character  in  "Time"? 
Meredith:  I don't  know  if  my  iden- 
tification was  a surface  one,  but  I did 
feel  very  close  to  the  show's  idea.  I 
also  remember  that  "Time"  had  a Ger- 
man director  named  John  Brahm  who 
was  very  helpful. 

TZ:  In  what  way? 

Meredith:  I've  found  that  not  all  direc- 
tors appeal  to  me.  Some  of  them  move 
you  around  and  that's  it.  Others,  like 
Brahm,  are  concerned  with  what  you're 
trying  to  do  and  collaborate  with  you. 
He  seemed  to  be  a first-rate,  most  in- 
teresting man.  Unfortunately,  I only 
knew  him  for  "Time"  and  "Mr.  Dingle, 
The  Strong,"  which  he  also  directed.* 

I don't  think  I've  ever  done  any 
other  project  that  people  talk  to  me 
more  about  than  that  show.  Roughly 
every  two  or  three  months,  someone 
comes  up  to  me  and  mentions  "Time 
Enough  at  Last."  It's  gotten  to  the  point 
where  when  they  first  approach  me,  I 


'Brahm  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-nine  on 
October  11,  1982,  at  his  home  in  Malibu, 
California.  His  most  famous  films,  done 
before  Twilight  Zone,  included  The  Lodger, 
Hangover  Square,  Tonight  We  Raid  Calais, 
and  The  Brasher  Doubloon.  In  addition  to 
his  twelve  Twilight  Zone  episodes  (spread 
through  the  show's  five  seasons),  he  direc- 
ted installments  of  Playhouse  90,  Dr. 
Kildare,  Alfred  Hitchcock  Presents,  Hhriller, 
and  The  Man  From  U.N.C.L.E.,  as  well  as 
the  pilots  for  Naked  City  and  The  Mod 
Squad. — JHB 


almost  know  what  they're  going  to  say. 
TZ:  1 would  have  thought  that  "Mr. 
Dingle " would  have  been  more  famous. 
Meredith:  No,  "Time"  is  the  one  that 
haunts  people.  The  show  that  I'd  like  to 
see  again  is  "Printer's  Devil"  [by  Charles 
Beaumont],  to  discover  if  it's  as  good  as 
I remember.  As  I recall,  it  was  an  amaz- 
ing piece.  I played  the  devil,  and  we  had 
a neat  little  special  effect  where  I'd  hold 
up  my  finger  and  fire  would  come  out. 
I'd  use  that  power  to  light  cigarettes  and 
the  like.  Another  program  that  Rod 
wrote  that  I particularly  remember  is 
"The  Little  Black  Bag"  from  Night  Gal- 
lery, where  I played  a surgeon  who 
finds  a magical  doctor's  bag  sent  to  him 
by  the  heavens. 

TZ:  The  last  shot  of  "Time  Enough  at 
Last,"  with  the  books  stacked  on  all 
those  steps,  must  have  been  technically 
difficult  to  set  up. 

Meredith:  Not  as  hard  as  doing  Star 
Wars\  I suppose  that  the  shot  was  quite 
ornate  for  a weekly  show,  but  you  have 
to  remember  that  Twilight  Zone  was 
shot  at  MGM,  where  they  had  those  ex- 
terior sets  all  over  the  place.  As  a result, 
the  only  thing  that  Twilight  Zone's  pro- 
duction people  had  to  do  for  that  scene 
was  get  a few  books. 

TZ:  "Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong"  was  the 
second  show  that  you  did  with  Rod 
Serling.  Were  you  apprehensive  about 
working  with  a comedian  like  Don 
Rickies? 

Meredith:  No,  because  Don  wasn't  well 
known  back  then.  A lot  of  people  also 
don't  realize  that  he's  trained  as  an  ac- 
tor. Don  was  actually  pretty  nervous 
about  doing  "Mr.  Dingle."  He's  a sweat- 
er, so  you  could  tell  when  he  was  wor- 
rying! Today,  the  prospect  of  working 
with  Don,  based  on  his  stand-up  act, 
would  be  terrifying. 

I'm  only  joking,  naturally.  In  fact, 
Don's  a neighbor  of  mine  in  Malibu.  We 

Meredith  played  a most  unusual 
neighbor  In  The  Sentinel  (1977).  "/ 
thought  we  were  doing  a kind  of 
Grand  Guignol. " 


26  Twilight  Zone 


gram.  I guess  Rcid  and  I just  went  our 
separate  ways. 

TZ;  Were  the  two  of  you  friends? 
Meredith:  We  were  friends  in  the  sense 
that  movie  people  say  they're  friends. 
Still,  I couldn't  tell  you  what  kind  of  a 
man  Rod  was,  except  that  he  was  small, 
dark,  and  kind  of  looked  at  you  under 
his  eyebrows.  You  always  thought  that 
things  were  clicking  away  inside  of  him 
faster  than  met  the  eye.  He  had  a lot  of 
nervous  energy.  He  wasn't  unkind,  but 
he  gave  the  impression  that  he  always 
had  something  going  on  in  his  mind  that 
was  probably  a little  more  important 
than  talking  witfi  you. 

TZ:  According  to  reports,  there  was 
also  a darker  side  of  Serling,  in  that  he 
was  deeply  troubled  by  "the  human 
condition." 

Meredith:  Underneath  Rod,  there  was 
kind  of  a dark  cloud,  but  he  didn't 
burden  people  with  it.  The  shadow  fell 
on  him  more  than  on  anybody  else. 
TZ:  It’s  been  said  that  as  Twilight 
Zone  went  on.  Rod's  battles  with  the 
network  wore  him  down. 

Meredith:  Fighting  with  the  networks 
can  take  a lot  out  of  you.  I've  never 
had  anything  to  do  with  networks— 
particularly  on  series — where  they 
didn't  give  us  a hard  time.  Doing  tv  is 
like  the  comfort  of  eating  at  a picnic 
with  wolves  around.  All  you  can  do  is 
take  the  network  interference  with 
laughter,  but  Rod  wasn't  that  type  of 
man.  What's  odd  is  that  people  keep 
getting  surprised  by  what  the  networks 
and  studios  do,  .as  though  they  haven't 
always  acted  that  way.  I remember 
that  when  I started  to  direct  a short 
subject  on  the  c:artoonist  Charles  Ad- 
dams,  a great  friend  of  mine,  I shot  a 
scene  where  he  was  sitting  outside  on 
the  grass  with  his  girlfriend,  having 
lunch.  They  were  having  a good  time, 
laughing  and  the  like.  Then,  when  the 
camera  pulled  back,  you  saw  that  they 
were  sitting  in  a cemetery.  That  senti- 
ment is  also  applicable  to  what  it's  like 
trying  to  enjoy  yourself  while  dealing 
with  the  networks.  When  the  camera 
pulls  back,  you  see  where  you  are. 
TZ:  It's  said  that  Hollywood  was  like 
that  even  in  the  thirties. 

Meredith:  I didn't  come  to  California 
until  the  late  thirties,  but  even  then  the 
studio  situation  was  terrible.  Holly- 
wood was  dominated  by  five  or  six 
tyrants.  The  big  studio  heads  could  kill 
you.  My  ex-wife,  Paulette  Goddard, 
was  told  one  day  by  a studio  chief  that 
she  wasn't  going  to  get  work  anymore. 
After  that,  she  didn't  get  any  work. 
Two  phone  calls  and  her  career  was 


shout  at  each  other  and  have  a lot  of 
fun. 

TZ:  Richard  Matheson  told  us  in  a TZ 
interview  back  in  1981  that  one  of  the 
extra  pleasures  of  working  on  Twilight 
Zone  was  that  a good  portion  of  the 
time  was  devoted  to  the  actors,  direc- 
tor, and  writer  sitting  around  a table 
rehearsing  each  particular  episode 
before  shooting  actually  commenced. 
Meredith:  That's  right.  I didn't  realize  it 
back  then,  but  that  rehearsal  time  was 
pretty  unusual.  And  perhaps  the  rela- 
tionships developed  at  those  sessions 
help  explain  why  I stayed  in  touch  with 
many  of  the  show's  behind-the-scenes 
people  after  Twilight  Zone  went  off  the 
air.  Today,  though,  a day's  read-though 
is  common.  We  even  did  it  on  Gloria. 
TZ:  Did  it  ever  bother  you  that 
Twilight  Zone  seemed  to  typecast  you 
as  a meek  man? 

Meredith:  1 only  would  have  been  both- 
ered if  the  scripts  weren't  good.  I don't 
recall,  however,  ever  thinking  those 
roles  were  alike.  They  seem  in  my  mem- 
ory to  have  been  quite  different  and  in- 
teresting. For  example,  there's  a world 
of  difference  between  the  meekness — if 
that's  the  right  word — of  the  man  in 
"Time  Enough  at  Last"  and  the  char- 
acter in  the  "The  Obsolete  Man."  The 
truth  is,  I'd  do  almost  any  project  that 
Rod  asked  me  to.  In  fact,  in  the  back 
of  my  mind  I recall  that  toward  the 
end  of  Twilight  Zone’s  run.  Rod 


wanted  me  to  do  a new  series  with  him 
in  which  I'd  be  a continuing  character. 
He  probably  wanted  me  because  every- 
thing else  we  had  done  together  had 
been  successful.  I remember  that  we 
had  a couple  of  meetings,  but  I can't 
recall  what  the  show  was  going  to  be. 
Ask  Carol  Serling  what  we  tentatively 
talked  about.*  I'm  not  sure  why  we 
never  got  around  to  doing  the  pro- 


*We  did,  and  discovered  that  the  proposed 
series  was  an  extension  of  the  Twilight 
Zone  episodes  "Mr.  Bevis"  and  "Cavender 
Is  Coming,"  both  chronicling  the  misadven- 
tures of  an  angel  trying  to  help  humans — in 
the  first,  the  title  character  (portrayed  by 
Orson  Bean),  and  in  the  second,  Carol  Bur- 
nett. Henry  Jones  played  the  angel  in  "Mr. 
Bevis"  and  comedian  Jesse  White  did  so  in 
"Cavender."  Marc  Scott  Zicree,  in  The 
Twilight  Zone  Companion,  suggests  that 
the  "Mr.  Bevis"  series  would  have  detailed 
Bevis's  antics,  with  the  angel  always  bailing 
him  out  of  trouble,  and  that  Serling  wanted 
Meredith  to  play  Bevis.  It  seems  equally 
possible,  however,  that  Meredith  was  of- 
fered the  part  of  the  angel,  and  that  the 
proposed  series  would  have  shown  the 
angel  helping  out  a new  human  each  week 
(which  was,  according  to  Zicree,  Serling's 
revised  intent  for  "Cavender").  Meredith 
later  confirmed  our  interpretation.  The  idea 
of  having  a bumbling  angel  aid  a new 
group  of  humans  finally  made  it  to  the  tube 
as  an  extremely  short-lived  ABC  tv  series  in 
the  late  '1970s,  starring  Carl  Reiner.  Serling 
was  not  involved. — JHB 


"The  one  that  haunts  people.”  Maredith  survived  an  atomic  war— and  The 
* Day  After— in  Rod  Seriing’s  "Time  Enough  at  Last,"  his  most  ceiebrated  Twilight 
Zone  role. 


28  Twilight  Zone 


over.  At  least  today,  things  have  some- 
what improved;  otherwise,  I would 
never  have  moved  to  Los  Angeles.  The 
networks,  however,  still  operate  more 
or  less  the  same  way  they  always  have. 
TZ:  One  of  the  characters  you're  best 
known  for  having  portrayed  is  the  vil- 
lain called  "the  Penguin"  on  Batman. 
Was  that  fun  to  do? 

Meredith:  It  was  a riotous  experience. 
Everyone  had  a good  time  working  to- 
gether, and  we  got  to  do  an  awful  lot 
of  ad-libbing.  Mine  usually  came  when 
the  Penguin  would  insult  Batman  by 
calling  him  "Bat-boob"  or  "Bat-this" 
and  "Bat-that."  I remember  that  during 
the  middle  1960s,  when  Batman  was 
produced,  I had  already  given  up 
smoking  for  twenty  to  twenty-five 
years — but  I had  to  smoke  all  the  time 
as  the  Penguin.  The  smoke  would  get 
caught  in  my  throat.  Since  I didn't 
want  to  constantly  ruin  takes  by 
coughing  out  loud,  which  the  smoke 
forced  me  to  do,  I developed  the 
Penguin's  "quack,  quack"  to  cover  it. 
Actually,  it  was  a pretty  unlikely  noise 
for  the  Penguin  to  make.  It  sounded 
more  like  a duck!  The  quack  got  so 
famous,  though,  that  whenever  the 
writers  couldn't  think  of  anything  fun- 
ny to  put  in  their  scripts,  they'd  write 
a "quack,  quack"  for  me.  I also 
developed  that  little  penguin  walk. 

TZ:  You  once  said,  years  ago,  that 
when  considering  work  in  television, 
"You  should  just  take  the  money  and 
run."  Is  that  why  you  did  Batman! 
Meredith:  I did  it  for  two  reasons,  one 
of  which  was  salary.  The  other  was 
that,  after  its  first  fitw  episodes.  Bat- 
man became  the  in  thing  to  do.  Every- 
body—including  Frank  Sinatra — would 
either  play  a villain  or  appear  as  them- 
selves in  that  cameo  showcase  where  a 
celebrity  would  poke  his  head  through 
the  window  of  a building  that  Batman 
and  Robin  were  climbing.  I even  re- 
member Otto  Preminger  saying  to  me, 
"My  God,  my  son  won't  speak  to  me 
unless  I get  a job  on  Batman."  Eventu- 
ally he  got  in  [as  "Mr.  Freeze"]!  Actu- 
ally, we  didn't  get  as  much  money 
from  the  show  as  you  might  think.  The 
main  impetus  to  continue  appearing  on 
Batman  was  that  it  v^as  fashionable. 

Recently  there' ve  been  plans  to  do 
a new  Batman  movie.  There  was  a 
kind  of  half  inquiry  as  to  whether  I'd 
like  to  play  the  Penguin.  I said,  "No 
thanks.  The  joke's  over  for  me."  Word 
came  back  that  they're  going  to  get 
some  famous  actor  for  the  part. 

TZ:  I've  heard  that  Dudley  Moore  is 
interested  in  playing  the  Penguin. 


Meredith:  He'd  be  very  good.  Of 
course,  someone  also  remade  Of  Mice 
and  Men  a while  back  for  tv.  [Robert 
Blake  portrayed  Meredith's  original 
role.]  That  type  of  thing  doesn't  hurt 
me.  Actually,  I'm  kind  of  sorry  that  I 
ever  did  Batman — as  I think  some  of 
the’ show's  other  regulars  are — because 
it's  kind  of  pursued  us  all  of  our  lives. 
For  the  past  several  years,  people  have 
sometimes  introduced  me  by  saying, 
"Burgess  Meredith,  best  known  for 
Batman  ..."  I'm  not  against  Batman, 
it's  just  that  the  overemphasis  on  my 
doing  the  part  has  been  a little  ridic- 
ulous. I mean,  when  you've  spent  your 
entire  life  working  as  an  actor  in  so 
many  different  things  and  then  some- 
one comes  up  to  you  and  says,  "Gee,  I 
just  loved  you  in  Batman  ..." 

TZ:  Especially  when  you've  had  a ca- 
reer as  varied  as  yours,  writing,  pro- 
ducing, and  directing  as  well  as  acting. 
I understand  that  your  first  experience 
behind  the  camera  was  a training  film 
you  made  for  the  military  during 
World  War  II. 


“The  news  is 
not  here— 
it’s  in  the 
other 

dimension.” 


Meredith:  Yes,  it  was  called  Welcome 
to  Britain,  an  orientation  film  that 
every  poor  soldier  arriving  in  England 
had  to  see.  It  was  my  directorial  debut, 
and  I also  acted  in  it.  It's  one  of  the 
things  in  my  career  that  I'm  proudest 
of.  Garson  Kanin  and  the  great  direc- 
tor Anthony  Asquith  helped  advise  me 
on  directing  it.  The  second  one  that  I 
was  associated  with  was  called  Salute 
to  France,  co-directed  by  Kanin  and 
Jean  Renoir.  We  had  to  make  it  in 
secret,  because  at  that  time  no  one  was 
supposed  to  know  that  the  Allies  were 
planning  to  enter  through  France  rather, 
than  Italy.  Eventually  I also  got  to 
know  Ernie  Pyle,  the  great  war  cor- 
respondent, when  I portrayed  him  in 
The  Story  of  G.l.  Joe. 

TZ:  Your  later  directorial  work  in- 
dicates that  you're  a fantasy  fan. 

- 


Meredith:  Yes,  but  fantasy  is  very 
ticklish  stuff  to  do.  Very  often  it's  better 
if  it  plays  in  your  head.  And  you  also 
have  to  be  very  careful  when  adapting 
it.  For  example,  a lot  of  Ray  Bradbury's 
stuff  hasn't  made  the  transition  suc- 
cessfully. I once  did  a record  reading 
some  of  Ray's  stories,  though,  which 
seemed  to  work  beautifully,  because  the 
fantasy  was  still  in  your  mind. 

TZ:  Bradbury  has  said  that  you  were 
his  personal  choice  for  the  album. 
Meredith:  Ray  and  1 have  been  friends 
for  a long  time.  He's  also  one  of  my 
favorite  writers  in  the  fantasy  area, 
along  with  Carlos  Castenada.  I have 
terrific  admiration  for  him. 

TZ:  What's  interesting  about  your 
friendship  with  Bradbury  and  your  ear- 
ly stage  and  screen  work  is  that  it  all 
seems  to  suggest  that  you  were  always 
attracted  to  fantasy  material,  even 
before  your  association  with  Twilight 
Zone. 

Meredith:  I guess  that  I've  always  felt 
that  the  farther  away  you  can  get  from 
reality,  the  better.  The  news  is  not 
here,  so  to  speak.  It's  in  the  other 
dimension. 

TZ:  That  probably  helps  account  for 
your  interest  in  sensory-deprivation 
tanks.* 

Meredith:  I became  interested  in  senso- 
ry derivation  through  the  work  of  Dr.  ♦ 
John  C.  Lilly,  who  invented  the  tanks, 
but  what  had  originally  fascinated  me 
was  his  work  with  dolphins.  I was  at- 
tracted almost  mystically  to  them,  as 
many  people  are,  because  they're  such 
an  intelligent  and  beautiful  species.  I 
had  even  written  a story  about  dol- 
phins. Then  it  occurred  to  me  that 
there  was  a person  I had  heard  about 
who  knew  more  about  dolphins  at  the 
time,  the  early  1970s,  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world:  John  Lilly.  At  that 
point  I simply  set  out  to  meet  him,  go- 
ing practically  unheralded  to  his  house. 
John  invited  me  in  and  we  became 
friends.  I was  virtually  made  a member 
of  his  family.  For  about  six  or  seven 
years  1 played  an  active  part  in 
John's  organization,  the  Human/Dolphin 
Foundation.  Unfortunately,  due  to  my 
schedule,  I recently  had  to  resign.  I'm 
on  "emeritus"  standing  now. 

TZ:  What  were  your  experiences  in  the 
sensory  deprivation  tank? 

Meredith:  One  of  absolute  rest.  As  in- 
tended, the  tank  was  an  aid  to  the 


‘Enclosed,  usually  coffinlike  structures  in 
which  one  lies  prone,  floating  in  water,  sur- 
rounded by  total  darkness — as  popularized 
in  Altered  States. — JHB 


Twilight  Zone  29 


1.  "The  in  thing  to  do. " As  "the  Penguin,’’  Meredith  (here  with  Caroiyn 
Jones)  was  one  of  Batman's  favorite  viiiains.  2.  "re//  me  about  the  rabbits. 


Meredith  and  Lon  Chaney,  Jr.,  as  George  and  the  hapiess  Lenny  .in  the  1939 
fiim  of  John  Steinbeck’s  Of  Mice  and  Men.  3.  Meredith  (with  Eiieen  Heckart) 
as  a maiign  crippie  in  Burnt  Offerings  (1976),  and  (4.)  as  Mickey,  Sylvester 
Stallone’s  trainer  in  Rocky  (1976).  5.  "/  have  to  wear  this  damn  beard. " 
Meredith  was  a lively  ancient  Greek  in  198rs  dash  of  fhe  Tifanst 


elimination  of  earthly  intrusions.  Since 
sight,  sound,  and  partial  gravity  are  re- 
moved, I could  concentrate  on  my 
breathing  and  meditation.  Some  people 
—including  Barbara  Carrera,  whom  I 
introduced  to  the  tanks— become  so 
enamored  of  the  experience  that  they 
buy  their  own  for  their  homes.  Ulti- 
mately I found  that  I didn't  need  it,  be- 
cause I can  achieve  the  same  level  of 
peacefulness  strictly  through  medita- 
tion, which  I do  frequently.  I had  also 
never  had  any  of  the  weird  experiences 
with  the  tank  that  some  other  people 
have  encountered.  Of  course,  I also 
went  into  the  tank  once — and  only 
once — under  the  influence  of  drugs.  I 
used  Ketarnine,  with  a doctor's  guid- 
ance. I didn't  find  that  session  at  all 
beneficial. 

TZ;  Was  it  a bad  experience? 

Meredith:  I just  found  that  it  was 
jolting  rather  than  of  any  value.  In- 
stead of  opening  up  doors  of  percep- 
tion, the  drugs  got  in  the  way.  I’ve 
taken  a couple  of  the  cactus  drugs 
about  a half-dozen  times,  but  always 
with  someone  like  Lilly  around  to 
make  sure  everything  stayed  under 
control.  I was  simply  curious  about 
what  the  drugs  could  do.  I didn't  wind 
up  having  bad  experiences  with  them. 


either— I just  dislik^ed  their  effects. 
Taking  the  drugs  also  seemed  to  me  to 
be  slightly  unholy.  Today,  I don't  even 
smoke  pot;  I can't  smoke  anything.  If 
other  people  want  tq  do  drugs,  I sup- 
pose that's  up  to  them.  Although  I just 
walk  away  from  anybody  who  does 
coke.  Cocaine's  just  a bore. 

TZ:  Coke's  also  ruinftig  a lot  of  Holly- 
wood's great  talents.' 

Meredith:  It's  stupid.  Luckily,  my  mind 
is  very  attracted  to  altered  states,  but 
only  when  I go  there  on  my  own. 

TZ:  Getting  back  to  your  career,  you've 
been  quite  active  in  fentasy  and  horror 
films,  starting  with  Burnt  Offerings,  in 
which  you  played  the  crippled  brother. 
Is  it  a little  difficult  on  the  ego  to  play 
someone  who  isn't  v!ry  attractive? 
Meredith:  On  the  e^?.  Would  I mind 
playing  Toulouse-Lautrec  or  the 
Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame?  Of  course 
not!  In  any  event,  my  part  in  Burnt 
Offerings  was  prettjj  small.  I couldn't 
have  worked  on  it  for  more  than  a 
week.  A nice  benefit,  though,  was  that 
1 got  -to  meet  Oliver  Reed,  who  has 
since  become  a good  friend. 

TZ:  You  also  did  a horror  film  called 
The  Sentinel.  It  insrared  some  contro- 
versy due  to  director  Michael  Winner's 
use  of  real-life  deformed  people  to  rep- 


resent Satan's  minions. 

Meredith:  During  production,  I thought 
that  we  were  doing  an  exceptional  pic- 
ture—a kind  of  Grand  Guignol,  bear- 
ing relation  to  some  of  the  great  Italian 
surrealistic  films.  I overestimated  it. 
TZ:  Some  critics  said  that  Winner's  use 
of  the  deformed  people  was  exploit- 
ative. Winner  claimed  that  they  had 
the  time  of  their  lives. 

Meredith:  I was  interested  in  those 
people  and  talked  to  them.  They  all 
seemed  to  be  glad  to  be  in  the  film, 
which  can  easily  be  believed  if  you 
look  at  the  history  of  freaks  getting  in- 
volved with  circuses  and  other  areas-  of 
show  business. 

TZ:  The  other  major  horror  picture 
that  you  did  v/as  Magic,  directed  by 
Richard  Attenborough  (Gandhi).  Be- 
fore its  release,  you  said  that  you 
would  be  disappointed  if  Magic  be- 
came known  as  "just  another  horror 
film."  You  felt  that  it  had  "many  Faust- 
ian overtones."  "• 

Meredith:  I felt  somewhat  different 
about  Magic  after  I saw  it.  1 could  un- 
derstand why  the  audiences  were  not 
as  interested  in  it  as  I thought  they 
might  be,  because  there  were  no  char- 
acters that  they  could  identify  with.  If 
the  hero  turns  out  to  be  someone  who 
is  hard  for  an  audience  to  be  enthusias- 
tic about — a murderer — who  were  they 
supposed  to  be  interested  in?  I guess 
that,  like  The  Sentinel,  it  was  a type  of 
Grand  Guignol,  but  it  didn't  sell  tick- 


30  Twilight  Zone 


ets.  If  we  knew  beforehand  how  some- 
thing was  going  to  turn  out,  we'd  be 
smarter  than  we  are. 

TZ:  Wasn't  there  some  story  involving 
your  having  to  shave  your  head  for  the 
film? 

Meredith:  When  Magic  was  about  to 
open,  I said  in  interviews  that  I was  so 
worried  about  the  possibility  of  my 
hair  not  growing  back  that  I told  Joe 
Levine  that  if  I stayed  bald.  I'd  sue 
him.  Joe  insured  my  hair  for  five  mil- 
lion dollars.  I'd  tell  reporters  I was 
.praying  that  my  hair  wouldn't  grow 
back.  After  all,  with  that  kind  of  mon- 
ey, I could  buy  a hair  transplant.  Un- 
fortunately, my  hair  returned  very 
quickly.  Now,  of  course,  I can  admit 
that  it  was  really  all  just  a publicity 
stunt. 

TZ:  The  Rocky  series  was  well  ac- 
cepted both  critically  and  commercial- 
ly. Did  the  massive  success  of  the  first 
film  come  as  a surprise? 

Meredith:  We  thought  that  Rocky  was 
a good  picture,  but  had  no  precogni- 
zance of  its  enormous  impact  until  its 
first  sneak  preview,  which  was  for  a 
college  audience.  The  film  got  such  tre- 
mendous response  that  it  opened  ev- 
erybody's eyes.  I said  to  myself,  "This 
picture  is  going  through  the  sky."  For 
opce,  I was  right!  And  playing  Mickey 
was  fun,  because  very  often  I only  get 
to  play  cerebral  people. 

TZ:  Your  most  recent  fantasy  work 
was  as  Ammon,  a man  of  the  theater 


in  anrfent  Greece,  in  Ray  Harryhau- 
sen's  Clash  of  the  Titans. 

Meredith:  Clash  was  great  fun  to 
make,  because  we  shot  all  over  Eu- 
rope: Spain,  Italy,  Malta,  England,  and 
France.  Ray  Tlarryhausen  had  great 
hopes  for  Clash  to  be  accepted  as  a 
work  of  meritj^t^fortunately,  although 
it  did  all  right  at  the  box  office,  critics 
seemed  to  think  that  it  was  old-fash- 
ioned or  somejhing.  I liked  the  film,  of 
course,  but  Ray  was  hurt  by  its  crit- 
ical reception. ' He's  a man  who's  kept 
to  his  own  techniques.*  As  a result, 
maybe  some  of  the  fantasy  scene  has 
passed ‘him  by.  Nevertheless,  I loved 
working  with  Ray  and  with  all  the  dif- 
ferent actors  that  Clash  featured, 
including  Laurence  Olivier,  Maggie 
Smith,  Calire  Bloom,  and  Ursula  An- 
dress. I remember  saying  to  Olivier  be- 
fore the  shooting  started,  "Oh,  God, 
Larry,  I have  to  wear  this  damn  beard 
while  we're  going  to  be  all  over  the 
desert."  He  said  [mimicking  Olivier], 
"I'll  fix  that  for  you,  old  boy."  Larry 
brought  the  director,  Desmond  Davis, 
over  and  said  to  him,  "Why  have  you 
got  my  friend  here  wearing  a beard?  In 
the  theater  in  those  days,  old  boy,  the 
actors  never  wore  beards.  They  * 


'Harryhausen  has  refused  to  use  computer- 
controlled  devices  and  certain  other  effects 
advances  which  could  conceivably  hasten 
his  stop-motion  animation  process  and  im- 
prove its  quality. — JHB 


couldn't  wear  them.  Don't  you  under- 
stand that,  old  boy?  If  the  actors  wore 
beards,  they  couldn't  put  masks  on.  If 
they  couldn't  put  masks  on,  they 
couldn't  do  their  plays.  So  it's  very  sil- 
ly for  Burgess  to  wear  a beard."  Des- 
mond waited  until  Larry  had  finished 
and  then  replied,  "Well,  Sir  Laurence, 
Meredith's  not  playing  an  actor.  He's 
playing  a playwright."  Larry  turned  to 
me  and  said,  "That  fucks  it,  Meredith." 
He  had  given  an  impassioned  speech 
on  the  wrong  subject! 

I remember  when  we  were  shoot- 
ing a scene  where  a whole  bunch  of  us 
were  walking  across  some  great  desert, 
on  location,  in  a long  shot  with  the 
camera  far  away.  We  had  to  do  the 
walking — which  was  the  only  element 
that  scene  contained — again  and  again. 
After  a while,  everybody  started  com- 
plaining. To  help  relieve  the  mo- 
notony, I made  up  a marching  chant: 
"Lloyds  of  London,  Barclay's  Bank/ 
Lloyds  of  London,  Barclay's  Bank  ..." 
We  compensated  for  the  boredom  by 
counting  the  money  we  were  getting 
for  the  picture. 

TZ:  You  have  been — -and  are — in- 
volved in  a great  many  different  areas. 
Is  variety  the  secret  of  your  longevity, 
even  if  only  on  personal  terms? 
Meredith:  Well,  all  I know  is  that,  with 
my  afting,  f look  over  the  parts  I'm  of- 
fered and  pick  the  ones  I think  I can 
do.  T don't  Jnake  a concerted  effort  to 
vary  them.  I simply  select  the  ones  that 
I like.  With  the  other  elements  of  my 
life,  I just  pursue  my  interests,  which 
are  varied.  I've  even  toured  colleges  as 
a guest  speaker.  I did  one  tour  about 
Carlos  Castenada's  writings  and  anoth- 
er, entitled  "An  Evening  with  Burgess 
Meredith,"  made  up  of  readings  and 
the  like,  directed  by  Charles  Laughton. 
More  recently,  the  American  Program 
Bureau  [a  service  which  books  lecturers 
at  colleges]  has  been  after  me  to  do  a 
tour  on  Robert  Frost. 

TZ:  Since  you're  still  very  much  in  the 
public  eye,  have  you  ever  considered 
producing  another  film? 

Meredith:  I've  thought  of  leaping  off  a 
cliff,  but  nothing  as  awful  as  producing 
again.  Jumping  in  boiling  oil  might 
even  be  preferable. 

TZ:  Last  year  you  were  brought  back 
to  The  Twilight  Zone  when  you  did 
the  narration  for  the  motion  picture 
version. 

Meredith:  Yes,  the  script  they  sent  me 
was  a pleasant  surprise  in  that — format- 
wise,  anyway — it  seemed  pretty  close 
to  the  show.  So  I decided  to  do  it. 
(continued  on  page  80) 


Twilight  Zone  31 


AN  OLD  DOG,  A LONELY  LITTLE  BOY, 
AND  A IMTHEIT  CREEPY  BABY]:SITTER  ARE 
THE  FEATURED  PERFORMERS  IN  THIS  YEAR’S 
CROP  OF  PRIZEWINNfNG  STORIES 

BY  NEW  WRITERS. 


*•  .• 


qjfbur 
Third  Annual 

Short  Story  Contest 


^ * ♦ 


CHOSEN  BY  THE  EDITORS  OF 


• . » 


The! 


HONORABLE  MENTION 


Michael  G.  Berry, .Aleilandrja,  VA 
. Nancy  Burks,  Granbury,  TX 
* Donna  Buschmeisr,  Clementon,  NJ 
Harvey  F,  Charirand  and 
* George  Shirreff,  Ottawa,  Ontario 
j9hn  R.  CIancey,  Jr.,  Steubenville,  OH 
Richard  Corbo,  Torrington.  CT 
gat-Oade,  Takoma  Park,  MO 
David  A.  Downing,  Wenatchee,  WA 
C.  K.  Fassett,  Fair  Oaks,  CA 
Scott  Grantham,  Rock  Hill,  SC 
Ron  Gray,  Garland,  TX 
Michael  Grisi,  Jackson,  NJ 


Native  Music 
The  Cows 
. After  Midnight 

To  Share  Its  Darkness 
On1he  Edge 
The  Cabbie 

That  Time  of  the  Month’ 
Forestflight 
Re-llex-ens  . 

What  Are  Friends  For? 
Second  Chance 
Father’s  Day 


James  B.  Kristian,  Oceanside,  CA 
Billie  Marsh,  Tulsa,  OK 
Elizabeth  Massie,  Waynesboro,  VA 
Patricia  L.  McCune,  San  Diego,  CA 
Joseph  M.  O’Conner,  Auburn,  ME 
Stephen  Phillips,  Belfry,  KY 
Ron  Rajecki,  Parma,  OH 
Victor  L.  Rosemund,  San  Diego,  CA 
James  D.  Seward,  Bettendorf,  lA 
Barbara  J.  Tebben,  Minneapolis.  MN 
Charles  Wagner,  Torrance,  CA 
Johnny  R.  Willis,  Greenville,  NC 
Howard  Wornom,  Hampton,  VA 


A C[iildren’s  Game 
The  Game 
Dust  Cover 

The  Apricet  Berdette-Coote 
That  Day  by  the  River 
White  Retrospect 
Incident  on  a Snowy  Night 
Zap  Scam 
TheFiredoor/ 

By  Highway  35 
By  the  Banks  of  the  Solomon 
The  Guise-Gootas 
Old  Habits 


32  Twilight  Zone 


Illustratfons  by  Stephen  W.  Andrus 


First  Place: 

Invitation  to  a Party 

by  Jon  Cohen 


e should  be  back  from  the  party  by 
twelve,  Miss  Lordo.  My  husband  will 
give  you  a ride  home." 

"Not  Miss  Lordo— Iris."  Iris  lifted  her  upper 
lip  the  way  a dog  will  do  just  before  it  growls, 
smiled  at  Mrs.  Sherwood.  Now  tell  me  that  the 
numbers  for  the  police  and  fire  department  are  by 
the  phone. 

"And,  God  forbid  you  should  need  them, 
police,  fire,  emergency  numbers,  that  sort  of  thing, 
are  right  by  the  phone.  I guess  there's  really  nothing 
else.  Don't  let  them  stay  up  too  much  longer."  She 
pulled  on  her  coat.  'You're  very  good  with  children, 
I'm  told." 

"I  have  a way  with  them,  yes.  I think  I hear 
your  husband  honking  for  you.  You'd  better  go." 

"You're  right,  Robert  will  have  a fit  if  we're 
late."  She  knelt  before  her  brood.  "Who  has  a kiss 
for  Mommy?"  They  gathered  around  and  kissed  her 
quickly,  their  lips  skipping  off  her  taut  cheek.  "You 
be  nice  to  Miss  Lordo." 

"Iris.  Goodnight,  Mrs.  Sherwood."  Iris  stood 
just  out  of  view  beside  the  window  and  watched  the 


car  drive  away,  then  turned  to  the  children.  They 
crowded  together,  eyes  wide.  She  marched  past  them 
into  the  kitchen  and  they  scrambled  after  her, 
bunching  up  again  when  she  stopped  in  front  of  the 
refrigerator.  "Snacktime,"  she  said,  pulling  out  milk 
and  juice.  "Who  knows  where  the  cookies  are?" 

"I  do,"  said  one  of  them.  "But  we  can't  have 
any.  We're  not  allowed."  Iris  stood  looking  at  him, 
then  shot  across  the  kitchen  and  scooped  him  up, 
pushed  her  face  close  to  his.  "You  and  I are  going  on 
a cookie  patrol,"  she  said,  flashing  her  dog-smile. 

"Up  there,"  he  said,  wriggling  wildly  and 
pointing  to  a cupboard  above  the  sink.  She  put  him 
down  and  he  ran  back  to  the  startled  little  group 
crowding  against  the  refrigerator. 

"Until  Mommy  comes  home  I'm  your 
mommy.  Understand?"  Chewing  a cookie  she  shook 
the  box  at  them.  "So,  snacktime."  The  oldest  one 
moved  toward  the  box  with  the  apprehension  of  a 
squirrel  approaching  a hand  holding  a peanut.  "Go 
ahead,  take  it.  Let's  everybody  come  sit  at  the  table. 
Juice  or  milk?  Have  as  many  cookies  as  you  want." 
Each  took  one.  "As  many  as  you  want,  I said.  Pass 


Twilight  Zone  33 


Invitation  to  a Party 


that  box  around  again."  The  child  nearest  her  eyed 
the  others  and  grabbed  a handful.  They  stared  at  his 
great  pile.  There  was  a giggle  and  another  did  the 
same.  Chaos  at  the  table,  the  children  shrieked  and 
snatched  at  the  box,  dizzy  with  this  wonderful 
violation  of  the  rules. 

Cookies  gone,  they  turned  to  Iris,  eager  for 
. the  next  desecration.  "Now  what  can  we  do.  Iris?" 

She  leered  at  her  little  converts.  "Well,  let's 
see.  What  aren't  you  usually  allowed  to  do  at  night?" 

"Play  out  in  the  yard."  "Watch  tv  except 
weekends."  "Ride  bikes."  "Pillow  fights." 

"We're  never  allowed  to  have  pillow  fights," 
said  the  oldest. 

"Maybe  Iris  will  let  us."  How  far  would  she 
let  them  go? 

"Bedtime,"  said  Iris.  The  children  grinned, 
unsure.  "Bedtime,"  she  repeated. 

"We're  never  going  to  bed,"  they  said,  teasing 
her  back. 

"Bet  you  are,"  she  said,  cleaning  up  the  mess 
on  the  table. 

"Bet  we're  not,"  said  t^e  littlest,  excited  by 
' this  bold  ,game. 

Iris  walked  to  the  sink,  paused,  then  whirled 
around.  "I  bet  if  you're  not  in  bed  in  two  minutes. 
I'll  tell  your  mommy  you  ate  all  the  cookies."  She 
turned  away  from  them  and  ran  water  over  the 
dishes. 

"You  said  we  could,  Iris.  You  said." 

She  kept  her  back  to  them.  "I'll  say,  'Mrs. 
Sherwood,  those  bad  little  children  weren't  out  of 
my  sight  five  minutes.  When  I came  into  the 
kitchen,  there  they  were  gobbling  down  cookies.  The 
whole  box,  Mrs.  Sherwood,  the  whole  box.'  That's 
just  what  I'll  tell  her  if  I count  to  three  and  you're 
still  sitting  at  that  table.  One  ..." 

The  children  darted  out  of  the  room  in  a 
squealing  panic.  Iris  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs' 
and  called  up,  "I'll  come  tuck  you  in  after  a while. 
Remember  to  say  your  prayers."  She  could  hear 
them  rushing  around,  whispering.  Beds  squeaked,  a 
toilet  flushed,  one  of  them  knocked  something  to  the 
floor— a pile  of  books,  maybe  a heavy  toy.  "Sorry," 
yelled  a voice  down  to  her. 

/t  was  a big  house,  so  Iris  wandered  through 
several  rooms  before  she  found  the  living 
room.  That's  where  she  always  began.  There's 
so  much  here.  I'll  never  get  to  see  it  all.  She'd  have 
to  hurry.  No,  if  I hurry  it  will  ruin  it.  She'd  have  to 
be  selective  then,  miss  some  rooms.  Her  favorite 
things  were  bureaus,  dressers,  and  desks,  because 
they  had  drawers.  Pulling  out  a drawer,  to  Iris,  was 
like  opening  a present;  there  was  always  a secret 
surprise  inside.  Since  they  were  so  special  she  saved 
them  for  l^t. 

First  she  did  the  furniture.  Sometimes 
something  good  would  slip  down  under  a cushion. 


She  tugged  on  the  sofa  cushicjns,  but  they  were 
sewed  on  somehow.  She  pushed  her  hand  between 
the  cracks  but  didn't  come  up  with  anything. 
Nothing  in  any  of  the  chairs,  either;  she  felt  herself 
growing  warm  with  irritation.  They're  probably 
never  in  here.  People  with  big  houses  never  go  into 
most  of  their  rooms,  sit  on  any  of  their  furniture. 
They  just  own  things.  Anger  knifed  her  and  she  sud- 
denly looked  up  as  if  she  could  see  into  the  chil- 
dren's rooms  above  her.  They'd  still  be  awake, 
maybe  even  sneaking  in  and  out  of  each  other's 
bedrpoms.  Well,  let  them,  so  long  as  they  keep 
quiet,  don't  spoil  my  night.  She  gazed  around  the 
room,  feeling  better,  and  decided  the  coffee  table, 
would  be.  next.  Not  as  many  knickknacks  on  it  as 
she'd  hoped.  She  picked  up  an  onyx  owl  and 
caressed  it.  Then  a small  marble  box,  her  fingers 
fluttering  over  its  cool  sides,  not  ready  to  open  it. 
Holding  it  to  her  breast,  she  left  the  room,  turned 
out  the  light  behind  her.  She  stood  a moment  in  the 
doorway,  then  turned  on  the  light  again  and  walked 
back  in.  Now  it  was  her  living  room.  She  put  her 
bpx  down  next  to  her  owl.  Until  she  heard  their  car 
drive  up,  the  house,  everything,  was  hers. 

Time  for  the  drawers,  time  to  get  inside  the 
drawers.  She  opened  the  top  drawer  of  the  small 
bureau.  She  slid  her  hand  in,  touched  things,  went 
in  more  deeply.  Searching,  fef!ling,  she  found  an 
invitation  to  a dinner  party  and  read  it;  then, 
returning  it,  she  closed  the  drawer  and  walked 
away. 

She  paused. 

Where  did  I put  that  dinner  party  invitation? 
I know,  it's  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  bureau.  She 
moved  back  to  the  bureau  and  sure  enough,  there  it 
was,  right  where  she  had  put  it  last  week. 

A sound  from  upstairs  jolted  her.  Her  eyes 
cut  to  the  ceiling  and  down  again  to  the  invitation. 
It  was  Mrs.  Sherwood's — the  invitation  was 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Sherwood,  not  to  her.  The  floor 
I tilted.  Let  me  alone.  This  is  my  house  tonight,  mine. 

♦ She  slipped  to  the  floor,  shut  lier  eyes  against  the 
intrusion  of  the  children,  and  lay  there  motionless, 
breathing  in  little  controlled  puffs.  She  recovered 
herself  slowly.  Then  she  was  able  to  stand.  The 
invitation  was  in  her  hand  and  she  stared  at  it — it 
was  addressed  to  her  again.  She  smiled  and  nodded 
her  head.  I must  remember  to  accept. 

She  moved  the  oak  dresser  across  the  room 
and  stroked  its  hard  surface.  Can  I get  inside?  It  was 
easy.  The  dresser  drawer  had  odd  bits  of  silver  on 
top,  linen  and  several  frayed  anrimacassars  beneath. 
Yes,  I remember.  Her  grandmother  had  crocheted 
' the  antimacassars  years  and  years  ago.  A sweet  scent 
drifted  toward  her — the  lavender  sachet  she  had  put 

♦ in  with  the  linen  last  winter.  She  lost  herself  inside 
^ the  drawer. 

"Iris?"  came  a small  voice  behind  her.  She 

♦ slammed  it  shut  and  whipped  around.  It  was  the 

i 


34  Twilight  Zone 


skinny  one.  The  child  backed  away.  "Janey's  crying 
and  won't  stop."  He  ran  out  of  the  room.  "I'll  come 
up,"  Iris  yelled  after  him.  She  looked  around  her,  at 
the  paintings,  the  furniture,  the  lamps  and  tables,  at 
the  room  itself;  all  this,  these  things  that  were  hers, 
that  possessed  her,  changed  and  fell  away.  / just 
want  it  for  one  night,  for  a few  hours,  and  you 
won't  give  it  to  me.  You  have  all  this,  these  rooms 
you  never  see,  drawers  you  never  open,  children 
you  leave  with  strangers.  She  hugged  herself  to  hold 
in  her  mounting  fury.  The  room  tilted,  spun,  and 
she  with  it.  She  ran  into  the  kitchen.  Whirling,  she 
scattered  silverware,  searching  for  a knife.  Janey  was 
crying.  Iris  could  hear  her.  Stop  stop  stop,  this  is  my 
house.  She  rushed  back  into  the  living  room,  the 
knife  high  above  the  sofa,  ready  to  slash  at  it.  Then 
her  arm  dropped  to  her  side.  No. 

"I'm  coming,  Janey,  just  a minute,"  Iris  called 

to  her. 

She  returned  to  the  kitchen  to  pick  up  her 
mess.  The  glasses  tfiey  had  used  for  their  snack  were 
dry  now,  and  she  put  them  back  in  the  cupboard. 

All  right,  children.  Here  I come. 

They  could  hear  her  walking  up  the  stairs.  It 
got  quiet  as  she  stood  in  the  hall  trying  to  decide 
where  they  were;  the  house  was  so  big  each  child 
had  its  own  room.  They  heard  her  moving  again, 
opening  a door.  The  bathroom.  Another,  the  hall 
closet.  Janey's  was  next.  Iris  quietly  shut  the  door 
and  moved  toward  the  bed,  a hand  behind  her  back. 
"Mommy  has  something  for  Janey.  Something  to 
stop  the  tears.  Want  to  see?"  Janey  nodded,  reached 
out.  Iris  showed  her  and  Janey  made  a squeaking 
sound.  "A  cupcake  I found  just  for  you.  Eat  it  quick 
and  no  crumbs  in  the  bed."  When  she  finished.  Iris 
wiped  her  mouth  with  a Kleenex  and  tucked  her  in. 

Iris  wandered  down  the  hall,  stopping  in  each 
of  their  rooms,  telling  stories,  or  tickling  them,  or 
reading  out  loud  until  they  fell  asleep.  The  last  child 
was  the  skinny  one.  He  was  sitting  in  bed  hunched 
against  his  pillows.  "Don't  be  afraid  of  Mommy," 
said  Iris. 

"You're  not  my  mommy,"  he  said,  watching 
her.  Iris  tilted  her  head  as  if  she  didn't  understand. 
"Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said  again,  moving  toward 
him. 

When  she  came  out  the  house  was  hers.  She 
went  into  the  batfiroom  and  washed  her  hands, 
lathering  and  rinsing  until  she  felt  clean.  Where  is 
my  towel  ...  oh,  of  course.  She  reached  for  the  one 
with  Mother  embroidered  on  it. 

Robert  will  he  coming  back  soon.  I'd  better 
get  ready.  She  hurried  into  her  bedroom  to  find 
something  to  wear,  then  decided  what  she  had  on 
would  be  good  enough.  I should  put  on  some 
makeup,  though,  comb  my  hair.  She  sat  at  her 
dresser,  found  a lipstick,  and  pouted  her  lips  in  the 
mirror.  The  photograph  beside  the  mirror:  she 
leaned  closer  to  look  at  it.  Robert  and  the  children 


The  last  child  was  the 
skinny  one.  He  was 
sitting  in  bed  hunched 

against  his  pillows. 
"Don't  be  afraid  of 
Mommy,"  said  Iris. 

at  the  beach.  It  was  so  hot  that  day  I had  to  beg 
them  to  stand  still  while  I took  the  picture.  So  hot, 
the  sun  glaring  off  the  sand  and  the  water  making 
them  squint.  Iris  picked  up  the  picture  and  held  it  in 
the  lamplight,  squinted  back  at  them,  puzzled.  The 
skinny  one  on  the  end,  he  didn't  belong  to 
her — "you’re  not  my  mommy" — what  was  he  doing 
there?  A playmate  met  on  the  beach,  a neighbor's 
child?  She  couldn't  remember.  A car  pulled  into  the 
driveway;  Iris  heard  the  gravel  popping  under  the 
tires.  Robert's  back  from  picking  her  up.  She  looked 
again  at  the  strange  boy,  couldn't  remember,  and 
placed  the  photograph  beside  the  mirror. 

Robert  will  have  a fit  if  we're  late.  She  ran 
down  the  hall.  They  came  in  the  back  door  just  as 
Iris  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  "Let  me  get  my 
coat  and  I'll  be  right  there,"  she  called. 

"All  right.  I'm  ready  to  go,"  she  saidj  rushing 
into  the  kitchen.  She  Smiled  at  Robert,  then  turned 
to  the  woman  standing  beside  him,  looking  her  over, 
decided  she'd  do.  "The  children  are  asleep,"  Iris  said 
to  her.  "There's  really  nothing  else  to  tell  you.  The 
numbers  for  the  police  and  fire  department  are  by 
the  phone."  The  woman  appeared  confused, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  at  Robert  as  Iris  headed  for 
the  door.  "Goodnight,"  Iris  called  behind  her. 
"Come  on,  Robert,  we  don't  want  to  be  late." 
Frowning,  Robert  shrugged  back  at  his  wife,  then 
followed  Iris  out  to  the  car. 

Mrs.  Sherwood  hurried  upstairs.  Miss  Lordo's 
bizarre  chatter  had  bothered  her;  she'll  not  take  care 
of  my  children  again.  She  looked  into  the  first  room. 
Janey  was  asleep  and  Mrs.  Sherwood  gave  her  a 
kiss.  She  grew  calmer  as  she  moved  quickly  down 
the  hall  kissing  each  sleeping  child.  She  could  hear 
the  car  pulling  out  of  the  driveway  as  she  opened 
the  last  door. 

"What's  that . . . ?"  Robert  stopped  the  car  to 

listen. 

"What's  what?  I didn't  hear  anything,"  said 
Iris.  "Robert,  don't  worry,  everything's  fine.  We 
have  a very  good  sitter."  From  her  side  of  the  car 
Iris  could  see  Mrs.  Sherwood  struggling  to  open  the 
upstairs  bedroom  window.  "Yes,  very  good,  and  she 
has  a real  way  with  children.  I'm  told.  Now,  come 
on,  Robert,  let's  go  or  we'll  be  late  for  the  party.  "|jg 


Twilight  Zone  35 


Second  Place: 

Demy  at  Midnight 

by  Pamela  /.  lessen 


enny  sat  poised  at  the  top  of  the  hill  on  his 
low-slung  plastic  Big  Wheel.  With  a four- 
year-old's  patience,  he  mentally  measured 
the  distance  he'd  cover  before  making  his  spin-out 
into  his  own  driveway.  Meters,  feet,  inches — he 
knew  nothing  of  these.  He  only  knew  he  could  go 
up  the  street  to  the  fire  hydrant,  then  turn  and  fly  as 
fast  as  his  three-wheeler  would  let  him  past  the 
green-and-white  house,  the  gold  house,  the  brick 
house  and,  with  a grab  at  the  handbrake,  spin  wild- 
ly into  his  own  wide  driveway.  It  was  a perfect  way 
to  spend  a summer  day. 

Only  . . . only  it  would  sure  be  lots  more  fun 
if  he  had  a friend  to  ride  with  him.  Someone  to 
shout  back  and  forth  to — “C'mon!"  “Let's  go!" 
"Yahoo!'’  “Race  you!'’ 

No  one  to  race. 

Instead,  Denny  raced  the  clouds  overhead, 
the  breeze  that  ruffled  the  hair  from  his  eyes,  the 
butterfly  oblivious  to  everything  but  the  next  flower. 
And  at  night  he  raced  the  moon  . . . 

oaning,  Sarah  jerked  upright  in  bed,  eyes 
wide,  sweat  soaking  her  thin  summer  night- 
gown. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mumbled,  sleepy  words. 
Her  husband  Paul  touched  her  arm,  gently  drawing 
her  back  down  to  the  pillows. 

"Did  ypu  hear  it?"  She  whispered  hoarsely, 
grabbing  the  front  of  his  t-shirt. 

"What?"  Infinite  patience,  perfect  kindness. 


Sarah  felt  like  screaming  at  him,  pounding  his 
chest,  forcing  him  to  admit  he'd  heard  the  same 
summer  sounds  echoing  on  the  night  wind.  How 
could  he  be  so  calm  all  the  time  when  she  felt  so 
twisted  and  broken  inside? 

"What  was  it  you  thought  you  heard?"  he 
asked,  gently,  softly. 

'Thought?  Sarah  stiffened  at  the  implication, 
then  relaxed  a bit. 

"I  must  have  been  dreaming,"  she  breathed. 
"That  same  dream  ..." 

Silence  from  Paul.  He  knew  the  dream;  no 
need  to  tell  him  anything  more. 

"Try  to  sleep.  You'll  feel  better  in  the  morn- 
ing." Less  kindness.  More  stock  answers,  reassur- 
ances. Subtle  ways  to  tell  her  to  leave  him  alone 
— don't  stir  up  his  own  nightmares. 

"Okay." 

They  hugged,  without  warmth,  and  Paul 
rolled  onto'  his  left  side,  away  from  her. 

Sarah  lay  awake,  studying  the  bright  spot  on 
the  ceiling  where  the  light  spille<i  in  from  the  street- 
lamp.  When  soft  snoring  assured  her  that  Paul  was 
asleep,  she  quietly  rose  from  the  bed  and  left  the 
room. 

She  paused  by  the  doorw'ay  to  the  children's 
room.  Pale  light,  cast  by  a gl(3wing  nightlight,  il- 
luminated their  sleeping  faces.  I'hey  were  so  full  of 
life  and  active  when  awake.  Seeing  them  this  way, 
they  seemed  frozen  in  time,  stalk,  unchanging.  Her 
eye  lingered  for  a moment  on  tlie  empty  bed  in  the 


36  Twilight  Zone 


corner  that  had  be<jn  Denny's. 

The  younger  one  stirred  restlessly.  He'd 
always  been  more  attuned  to  her  than  Jason,  her 
older  son,  somehow  sensing  her  wakefulness  and 
waking  himself  at  tlae  same  time.  Quietly  she  hurried 
away,  hoping  he'd  isettle  again  once  whatever  mental 
emanations  they  shared  were  weakened  by  distance. 

Sarah  stood  on  the  redwood  deck,  drinking  in 
the  cool  night  air.  The  moon  lay  over  to  the  west, 
waning  gibbous  but  still  luminous  enough  to  cast 
pale  shadows  in  tfie  yard.  The  swing  set  creaked, 
almost  as  if  someone  sat  in  one  of  the  swings,  and  a 
wind  chime  sounded,  light  and  airy  like  distant 
laughter,  high  and  thin. 

She  pulled  her  robe  tighter.  The  nightmare 
still  lurked  in  her  conscious  mind,  overlaying  mun- 
dane things  with  ghostly  images,  sounds.  She 
breathed  deeply,  smelling  the  dew  collecting  on  the 
grass  and  flowers  and — something  else?  Something 
familiar,  but  long  absent,  something  from  the  dream 
that  was  warm,  alive,  and  flushed  from  the  sun  . . . 

"Mommy?" 

Sarah's  heart  thudded  painfully  against  her 
rib  cage.  She  turned  and  saw  her  younger  son  gazing 
at  her  with  puzzled,  sleepy  eyes. 

"Sean,  what  are  you  doing  out  here?"  As  if 
she  didn't  already  know.  The  distance  between  them 
had  made  no  difference  after  all.  He  was  aware  of 
her  restlessness  and  had  come  seeking  her. 

"Mommy,  I'm  cold." 

Sarah  gathered  him  up  in  her  arms  to  carry 
him  back  to  bed.  hie  was  slight  for  his  age,  and  he 
snuggled  close  to  her,  his  small  arms  clasped  tightly 
around  her  neck. 

As  Sarah  opened  the  sliding  glass  doors  from 
the  deck  to  the  house,  she  heard  him  say  in  his  thin 
voice,  "'Night,  Denny." 

She  stared  at  her  son,  following  his  gaze  out 
beyond  the  deck  to  the  swings.  They  moved  slowly 
in  the  night  air,  but  no  figure  appeared,  magically  or 
otherwise. 

"Why  did  you  say  that?" 

But  Sean's  eyes  were  already  closed,  his 
breathing  slow  and  even.  Sarah  put  him  in  his  bed 
and  pulled  the  covers  up,  regarding  him  as  a slight 
chill  crept  about  her.  It  seemed  her  nightmare  re- 
fused to  end  even  though  she  knew  herself  to  be 
awake. 

As  softly  as  she  could,  she  eased  herself  back 
into  bed  beside  Paul.  She  could  have  saved  the  ef- 
fort, for  he  turned  :o  her  almost  immediately. 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"Just  out  to  get  some  air.  I couldn't  sleep. 
Then  Sean  came  out  so  I put  him  to  bed  and  came 
back  myself."  Pause;  one  heartbeat,  two.  "He  said 
the  strangest  thing  when  I was  carrying  him  inside." 

"Oh?"  The  voice  sounded  hollow  in  the  dark. 
He'd  put  his  arm  about  her  to  draw  her  closer,  but 
then  stopped. 


"He  said,  "Night,  Denny.'  Why  do  you  sup- 
pose— " 

"Christ!"  The  word  emerged,  a softly  spoken 
explosion.  "Why  can't  you  leave  it  alone?  He's  gone. 
Nothing  any  of  us  can  do  will  ever  change  that.  You 
and  your  crazy  dreams  . . . Even  little  Sean  is  begin- 
ning to  pick  up  on  it.  You  can't  keep  mourning  for- 
ever, Sarah.  Denny  is  dead.  We  have  to  let  him  be! 
Let  him  go  to  whatever  special  place  is  reserved  for 
children  taken  before  their  time.  You  won't  even  let 
me  take  his  bed  out  of  the  other  kids'  room.  How 
can  you  do  that  to  them?  To  us?" 

It  was  the  longest  speech  he'd  ever  made  on 
the  subject.  Usually  he  avoided  talking  about  it, 
steering  her  away  from  the  knife  .edges  of  grief  by 
gentle  maneuvering  and  manipulation.  But  the 
dreams  kept  on,  forcing  them  closer  and  closer  to 
the  jagged  cliff  face  that  Denny's  death  had  put 
before  them. 

"You  don't  feel  it  like  I do,"  she  mouthed,  not 
believing  it,  but  knowing  he  would  at  least  respond, 
not  turn  away  as  he  had  so  often  before. 

"How  can  you  say  that?"  His  voice  was 
rough,  his  breathing  ragged  with  unshed  tears.  "He 
was  my  son,  too." 

"But  the  dreams.  I can't  stop  the  dreams.  He's 
out  there,  racing  up  and  down  the  sidewalk — and 
out  back  on  the  swings." 

Moans  again,  but  not  hers.  His. 

"Paul,  I can't  ignore  the  dreams.  They  make 
it  seem  as  if  he's  here^  For  a time,  he  is  here.  Even  ♦ 
Sean  feels  him."  More  softly.  "He's  so  alone  ..." 

"Then  why  not  me  and  Jason?  What  makes 
you  so  special?" 

"I  don't  know.  I don't  know."  This  was  going 
nowhere,  like  all  the  other  times.  Night  was  greying 
into  morning.  "Go  to  sleep,  Paul.  You're  right.  Den- 
ny is  gone  and  my  dreams  won't  bring  him  back." 
Give  in,  give  in.  Too  tired  to  argue  anymore. 

Paul  turned  roughly  away  from  her.  They 
both  felt  the  wall  growing  between  them,  almost  a 
living  presence,  but  neither  felt  strong  enough  to  pull 
it  apart. 

Silent  tears  slid  down  Sarah's  face,  dampening 
her  pillow  yet  again.  Sleep  took  her  and  she 
dreamed  . . . 

enny  sat  poised  at  the  top  of  the  hill  on  his 
Big  Wheel.  But  now,  not  so  alone.  He  felt  it. 
Somehow,  somewhere,  just  beyond  his  edge 
of  vision,  just  out  of  hearing,  someone  was  there. 
Soon,  if  he  kept  practicing  his  riding,  perfecting  the 
skid,  his  mother  would  be  with  him,  and  after  her, 
Sean.  He  knew  it.  He  wanted  it.  So  bad.  Hurry, 
hurry,  he  pleaded  silently. 

He  pushed  off  with  his  feet,  racing  down  the 
hill,  hair  streaming,  eyes  laughing,  skidding  to  a 
stop  on  a driveway  just  made  for  that  purpose  in  a 
summer  that  knew  no  end.  IS 


Twilight  Zone  37 


obby  Pierce  wasn't  really  thinking  of  any- 
thing when  the  traffic  light  at  the  intersec- 
tion of  routes  19  and  206  went  yellow. 
Several  thoughts  had  been  careening  through  his 
head  and  bouncing  off  one  another  as  he  piloted  his 
motorcycle  up  the  road:  his  first  year  of  school  final- 
ly over;  his  girl,  an  easy-smiling  journalism  major 
with  a taste  for  Milton  and  Spenser  who'd  noticed 
and  pursued  him  successfully.  Still,  the  thing  that 
came  nearest  to  occupying  his  mind  was  one  fact: 
that  having  the  house  to  himself  for  three  weeks, 
after  living  in  a dorm  all  semester,  would  be  sheer 
bliss. 

Bobby  had  been  planning  on  getting  back  in 
time  to  see  his  family  off,  but  with  exams  and  fare- 
wells and  new  friends,  he  hadn't  been  able.  So  he 
would  be  headed,  back  to  an  empty  house— and,  of 
course.  Dog. 

Dog  was  special,  a brown-black  mutt  who'd 
wandered  into  the  backyard  when  Bobby  was  six 
years  old  and  just  stayed.  Growing  up,  he'd  been  a 
good  friend.  Friend?  Hell,  Dog  was  kin.  Through  all 
the  pain  of  adolescence,  Bobby's  arguments  with  his 
parents,  the  running  away,  the  tears  and  ultimatums 
and  groundings.  Dog  had  been  there,  sloppy,  warm, 
and — Bobby  often  suspected — not  very  bright. 

The  last  time  Bobby  had  called  home.  Dog 
wasn't  doing  very  well.  The  dumb  critter  had  taken 
a tumble  down  the  cellar  stairs  and  twisted  his  leg 
badly.  The  vet  had  told  Bobby's  parents  that  Dog 
was  just  getting  old,  and  that  was  that.  So  Bobby 
was  hurrying  home,  the  wind  in  his  hair,  to  spend 
some  time  with  his  oldest  friend.  As  the  light  went 
yellow,  he  gave  the  350  a little  gas  and  looked  to  the 
right.  There  was  a blur  of  blue-black,  something 
rammed  the  front  of  his  bike,  and  he  jerked,  flew 
awkwardly,  twisted  . . . And  died. 


Third  Place: 

Dog 

by  Bertram  WG.  Doyle 


on  Pierce  knew,  sure  as  the  Mets  were  in 
last  place  again,  that  it  %vas  going  to  be  hot. 
Heat-shimmering,  paint -peeling  hot.  God- 
awful hot.  As  he  heaved  the  Iasi  of  the  luggage  into 
the  back  of  the  Subaru  wagon,  he  silently  thanked 
the  gods  of  enlightened  consumerism  that  he  had 
opted  for  air  conditioning  over  the  economic  pro- 
testations of  his  wife.  Slamming  the  hatch,  he  turned 
and  headed  up  the  driveway,  mentally  counting  off 
preparations  as  he  went.  Oil,  gas,  water,  traveler's 
checks,  paperboy,  mailman,  God  in  Heaven  and  us 
in  Maine  for  three  weeks.  What  could  be  better? 

Still,  he  would  miss  the  house.  It  was  he  and 
Nicki's  first  and  only,  an  upright  and  proper  Vic- 
torian, complete  with  a root  cellar  that  the  two  of 
them  had  fixed  up  before  Robert  was  born.  Pierce 
smiled;  he'd  been  certain  it  was  a mistake  when 
they'd  bought  it.  So  much  work!  But  Yankee  in- 
genuity and  Time-Life  Books  had  proven  a match 
for  the  old  grey  monster,  and  after  all  that  effort 
they'd  never  sold  it  the  way  they  had  planned. 

"Nick!  C'mon  kids,  I swear  I hear  Maine 
callin'  my  name!"  he  shouted,  thinking.  I'm  a poet 
but  don't  know  it  ..  . 

The  spring  on  the  screen  door  groaned,  and 
his  wife  pushed  out  onto  the  porch,  followed  by  a 
small  towheaded  boy  and  Dog.  Nicki  was  wearing  a 
Syracuse  t-shirt  and  designer  jeans.  Her  feet  were 
bare,  as  usual,  and  an  overnight  bag  was  casually 
slung  over  her  shoulder.  She  looked  anything  but 
her  age,  which  Ron  had  carefully  and  considerately 
forgotten  after  she'd  passed  thirty-five.  Chris,  age 
seven,  was  impeccably  attired  in  a lime-colored  J.C. 
Penney  sports  shirt  and  matching  green  pants.  And 
Dog — well,  he  was  just  Dog.  Kind  of  brown. 

"Why  isn't  that  dog  in  the  basement?"  he 
asked,  knowing  the  answer.  "We're  outta  here  in 


38  Twilight  Zone 


two  minutesi" 

"He  wanted  to  say  goodbye,"  Chris  said  in 
his  most  you-grownups-are-so-ignorant  tone.  "And 
it's  a cellar." 

"Basement,  cellar,  whatever.  Did  you  padlock 
the  storm  door  on  the  side?"  He  gave  the  boy  a 
suspicious  look.  It  was  Chris's  job  to  lock  the  out- 
side door  to  the  root  cellar,  a curious  diagonal  struc- 
ture that  Ron  Pierce  had  actually  seen  only  once 
before,  in  the  tornado  scene  of  The  Wizard  of  Oz. 
Chris  would  sometimes  leave  it  open,  allowing  Dog 
to  escape  the  cellar  and  brutalize  trashcans 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

"Uh-huh.  It's  locked.  Daddy."  The  boy 
looked  sad. 

"Chris  says  Dog  doesn't  want  to  go  in  the 
cellar,"  Nicki  whispered,  with  a sly  wink  to  her  hus- 
band. "Dog  told  him  he  wants  to  wait  upstairs,  for 
Bobby." 

Pierce  frowned.  Somehow  he  always  wound 
up  with  the  thankless  task  of  locking  Dog  in  the 
base— cellar.  He  crossed  the  porch,  leaned  over,  and 
grabbed  Dog's  choke  collar.  Dog,  sensing  what  was 
about  to  happen  (he  knew  the  word  cellar),  sank  to 
his  haunches  and  began  to  whine  pitifully. 

"C'mon,  Dog.  Bobby's  riding  down  from 
school  and  should  be  home  late  tonight  ..." 

Opening  the  screen  door,  keeping  it  open 
with  his  foot. 

"Come  on.  Dog.  It's  nice  and  cool  . . 

Dragging  Dog  through  the  hall,  into  the 
kitchen. 

"Look  here.  There's  food  and  water  and  it's 
only  for  a couple  of  hours  ..." 

The  cellar  door.  Finally. 

"Okay,  you  old  mutt,"  he  said  tiredly. 
"Down  we  go."  He  opened  the  door.  "Just  a while. 
Dog.  Then  Bobby'll  be  home.  Remember  Bobby?  Re- 
member the  rabbits?" 

Dog  remembered.  His  tail  thumpthumped  re- 
flexively,  and  his  mournful  whines  turned  to  loud 
yips.  Pierce  looked  down  the  stairs  and  felt  a damp 
coolness  curl  over  Ids  face. 

"Rabbits,  Dog.  Downstairs.  Raa-bits!" 

And  Dog  turned  and  flew  down  the  steps.  For 
a moment.  Pierce  fcJt  a flicker  of  guilt.  He  couldn't 
believe  that  Dog  still  remembered  the  times,  years 
ago,  when  Bobby  .ind  Dog  would  run  themselves 
ragged,  chasing  imaginary  rabbits  in  the  backyard. 
And  that  Dog  still  fell  for  the  cruel  "rabbits 
downstairs"  trick. 

He  looked  down.  Dog  stood  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs  in  the  rectangular  patch  of  daylight  that 
came  through  the  cellar  door.  Dog  knew  he  was  too 
slow  to  reach  the  lop  of  the  stairs  before  the  tall 
man  closed  the  door,  so  he  stood  motionless, 
waiting  for  the  door  to  slam  shut,  and  lock  him  in 
darkness. 

"A  couple  of  hours.  Dog.  Honest."  Pierce 
closed  the  door. 


e awoke  in  darkness,  a growl  in  his  throat. 
Gripped  by  instincts  far  older  than  he  was, 
he  lifted  and  pointed  his  ears,  slowly  sniffed 
at  the  damp  air. 

He  knew  he'd  been  sleeping  for  a long  time; 
the  warmth  beneath  him,  the  tightness  in  his  legs 
told  him  it  was  night.  He  stood,  stretched,  and 
yawned,  showing  his  teeth.  Slowly  he  moved  from 
the  stairs  and  ambled  across  the  dark  cellar,  through 
the  cobwebbed,  dusty  chaos  of  rough  wooden 
shelves,  warped  game  tables,  and  disassembled  bicy- 
cle parts. 

Dog  knew  the  cellar.  He  knew  every  corner, 
every  slab  and  dip  in  the  hard-packed  floor.  The 
room  was  heavy  with  his  scent.  But  now,  as  he 
crossed  to  the  far  wall  to  stand  beneath  the  wooden 
storm  door,  he  caught  the  scent,  the  passing  breath, 
of  another  . . . 

The  smell  was  foul,  and  red  with  violence.  It 
reminded  him  of  fighting,  of  biting  and  tearing.  His 
fur  bristled  at  the  memory. 

But  Dog  was  too  old  to  fight,  and  in  a mo- 
ment the  other  scent  was  gone.  He  lay  down  and 
closed  his  eyes.  He  was  tired,  and  his  bones  ached; 
and  the  cellar  was  so  cool  and  quiet  and  snielled  like 
him  . . . 

Outside,  something  pushed  heavily  at  the 
storm  door. 

The  growl  in  his  throat  erupted;  sharp,  angry 
barks  filled  the  room.  Dog's  body  tensed.  He 
lowered,  dug  his  back  legs  into  the  earth,  and 
howled  at — „ 

Something  outside. 

Something  that  quietly  rattled,  then  twisted 
the  padlock  with  the  groan  of  old  metal.  Something 
that  pushed  inward  with  an  inexorable  weight  that 
cracked  and  splintered  the  old  wood. 

But  the  door  held. 

Dog's  brave  barks  turned  to  frightened 
whines.  His  chest  was  choked  with  hard,  pulsing 
beats,  and  he  tucked  his  tail  between  his  legs  and 
moved  away.  He  knew  that  the  something  outside 
was  stronger  than  he.  Without  seeing,  he  knew.  The 
scent  returned,  thick  with  the  promise  of  pain. 

He  would  not  fight.  He  would  run  and  hide. 
For  the  first  time,  he  would  run  . . . 

There  was  a sound  like  the  breaking  of  bones. 
Rusted  hinges  screamed,  and  the  storm  door  shat- 
tered, filling  the  room  with  splinters  and  dust.  Dog 
whimpered  and  moved  hesitantly  to  the  pool  of 
moonlight  that  spilled  onto  the  cellar  floor. 

Above  him  a dark,  twisted  silhouette  blocked 
the  doorway.  It  swayed  slowly  back  and  forth,  as  if 
moved  by  a whisper  of  wind.  Dog  stood  transfixed, 
his  hackles  erect,  his  stomach  sour  with  fear. 

".  . . Dog  ...”  A sound;  a wet,  aching  gasp. 

".  . . so  far  . . ." 

Swaying,  whispering.  It  was  a darkness  that 
soothed. 

"Couldn't  leave  . . . you  . . . 'lone  ..." 


Twilight  Zone  39 


Dog 


It  moved  away  from  the  door;  shifting,  gut- 
tering like  a drowning  candle  flame. 

. . raa  . . . bitsss." 

Dog  howled  and  lunged,  upward,  upward, 
toward  the  open  doorway.  There  was  a sharp,  ugly 
tearing  in  his  chest,  and  then  he  was  through. 
Through  the  doorway  and  into  the  clean  night  air, 
alive  with  scents  and  shadows.  He  turned  his  head 
slowly  and  looked  across  the  lawn. 

There.  He  saw  the  silhouette  moving  quietly 
through  the  darkness,  toward  a stand  of  trees  that 


edged  the  yard. 

Dog  moved  toward  it.  It  moved  fast,  but  Dog 
knew  he  could  catch  it.  He  knew  he  would  have  to 
run.  Run.  So  fast. 

With  a soundless  bark.  Dog  ran  to  the  trees. 
He  ran,  his  chest  filled  with  wind,  his  eyes  with 
moonlight.  He  ran,  and  his  l:)ones  lost  their  aches, 
and  his  feet  were  like  wings.  He  ran  and  ran  . . . 

And  felt  no  breeze  around  him,  nor  bent  a 
blade  of  grass,  as  he  ran  there  . . . 

To  the  trees,  where  the'  rabbits  lived.  IB 


ix-year-old  Peter  Grimes  continued  to  play 

with  his  miniature  Return  of  the  Jedi  speeder. 

"\Ni\l  not,''  Scott  said. 

"Will  too,"  Peter  repeated. 

"Wanna  bet?"  Scott  said  confidently. 

Peter  pulled  himself  up  off  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  his  house.  "Watcha  got?" 

Scott  Brett  dug  deep  into  his  tattered  shorts 
and  produced  a half-eaten  roll  of  Life  Savers  and  a 
worn  Star  Wars  figurine. 

Grimes  emptied  a box  of  Sweet  Tarts  into  his 
mouth  and  tossed  if  aside.  "No  way,  Jose,"  he 
mumbled. 

Reluctantly,  Scott  produced  a large  ivory- 
colored  shark's  tooth  his  father  had  given  him  for 
his  birthday.  Peter's  eyes  lit  up. 

"What  about  you?"  Scott  asked,  holding  the 
tooth  just  out  of  Peter's  reach. 

"My  entire  collection  of  Matchbox  cars," 
Peter  said  motioning  to  the  miniature  treasures 
scattered  over  the  sidewalk. 

"That  include  Knightrider?" 

Peter  nodded. 


"And  the  Jedi  Speeder?" 

Peter  nodded. 

"Okay,  then  prove  it,"  Scott  said. 

Peter  brushed  the  cars  aside  and  picked  out 
the  biggest  crack  the  worn  sidewalk  had  to  offer. 
Scott  huddled  near  the  Grimeses  front  door,  peering 
in  at  Peter's  mother,  who  was  vacuuming  the  stairs. 

With  one,  quick  driving  motion,  Peter 
slammed  his  Kermit  the  Frog  sneaker  across  the 
crack. 

Mrs.  Grimes's  scream  was  short  and  shrill  as 
she  collapsed  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  like  a broken 
doll. 

Scott  walked  slowly  toward  the  grinning 
Grimes  and  tossed  the  tooth  at  his  feet. 

"I  told  you  so,"  Peter  said. 

"Yeah,  well,  my  dad  says  if  you  try  to  teach  a 
real  old  dog  a new  trick,  he  won't  do  it." 

"Sure  he  will,"  Peter  said  as  he  admired  his 
winnings. 

"Will  not,"  Scott  said. 

"Will  too,"  Peter  repeated. 

^ ’ "Wanna  bet?"  IB 


40  Twilight  Zone 


Mii, 


WHO  WERE  THE  MONSTERS  ON  THE  ISLAND? 
AND  WHAT  MONSTERS  HAD  MADE  THEM? 


42  Twilight  Zone 


Illustrations  by  Jill  Karla  Schwarz 


In  the  name  of  Allah,  the  Compassionate,  the 
Merciful! 

I,  Rashid  the  Scribe,  son  of  Faraj,  testify  that 
this  is  the  true  and  literal  account  of  the  final  voyage 
undertaken  by  Sinbad  the  Sailor.  From  the  Island  of 
False  Images  I release  this  message,  trusting  to  God  to 
bear  it  safely  across  the  waters  to  some  understanding 
mind. 

efore  it  was  known  in  court,  the  bazaars  of 
Basra  had  word  that  the  great  navigator 
Sinbad  was  planning  to  emerge  from  retire- 
ment and  embark  upon  another  voyage.  So  swiftly 
and  quietly  did  he  advance  his  preparations  that  he 
was  almost  ready  to  sail  by  the  time  the  news  reached 
the  Vizier,  al-Afdal.  It  is  said  that  with  a word  of 
command  al-Afdal  might  halt  the  sun  in  its  passage 
across  the  sky,  were  it  not  an  impious  act.  Sinbad 
came  to  court  immediately  in  answer  to  his  summons. 

Having  made  his  obeisance,  he  listened  courte- 
ously while  the  Vizier  asked  the  purpose  and  destina- 
tion of  his  voyage.  For  of  old  he  was  wont  to  sail  at 
the  bidding  of  the  great  Caliph,  Haroun  al-Rashid. 

"Truly,"  Sinbad  replied,  "I  have  no  purpose 
here  but  my  own  love  of  adventure  and  new  lands.  I 
find  I am  ill  suited  for  a life  of  ease.  As  for  my 
destination,  I do  not  wish  to  speak  of  it  at  this  time." 

Al-Afdal  would  not  insult  so  great  a captain 
by  pressing  for  more  information. 

"Then  go  with  God,  Sinbad,"  said  he,  "and 
may  He  grant  you  favorable  winds.  But  you  may 
oblige  me  in  one  small  thing." 

"I  am  yours  to  command,"  said  Sinbad,  bow- 
ing. 

"Take  with  you  Rashid  Ibn-Faraj,  Scribe,"  the 
Vizier  bade  him,  "so  that  the  voyage  might  be  com- 
memorated to  posterity." 

And  so  I came  to  be  included  in  that  com- 
pany. 

e sailed  into  the  south  for  days  without 
number.  Sinbad  stood  on  the  deck,  using  a 
glass  to  scour  the  horizon.  The  mate  and 
crew  were  all  his  veterans,  old  companions  he  had 
rescued  from  poverty  or  summoned  from  the  enjoy- 
ment of  well-earned  riches;  one  and  all,  they  had 
come  to  him  like  disciples. 

"Time  was,"  whispered  Husain  the  Weaver's 
Son,  a grizzled  sailor  who  befriended  me,  "Sinbad 
needed  no  glass  to  watch  the  sea  and  sky.  His  was 
the  eye  of  the  hawk,  soaring  high  over  the  desert  to 
see  the  twitch  of  a mouse's  nose.  So  time  humbles 
us  all." 

Aye,  Sinbad  was  old.  His  beard  was  the  color 
of  snow  in  the  Armenian  hills.  Yet  he  moved  with 
the  grace  of  a leopard,  his  voice  was  as  clear  as 
a brass  horn,  and  more  than  once  he  showed  his 
strength  had  not  abated. 

An  ancient  crew  in  an  ancient  ship;  and  no 
man  of  us  knew  our  destination. 


"Even  so,"  I protested  to  the  mate,  Harufa 
Ibn-Ismail,  "the  captain  may  lead  us  into  unknown 
perils." 

"Trust  in  Allah,"  Harufa  replied.  "Is  not  a 
man's  very  life  a voyage  to  an  unknown  port?  Be 
still,  young  man." 

In  that  company,  I was  young  indeed. 

e sailed  so  far  south  that  we  left  the 
blistering  sun  behind  and  came  to  cooler 
latitudes — proof,  the  mate  whispered  to 
me,  that  the  world  was  round.  For  in  his  youth  he 
had  sailed  with  Sinbad  to  a northern  sea  where  ice- 
mountains  floated  on  the  water. 

Our  provisions  were  all  but  exhausted.  The 
old  men  began  to  grow  uneasy.  And  then  one  day, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  the  lookout  startled  us  with  a 
throaty  cry:  "Land  ho!  Island  due  south!" 

I ran  to  the  bow  and  discerned  a great  rock 
protruding  from  the  sea  like  the  horn  of  a basking 
dragon.  By  nightfall  we  were  anchored  in  a bay 
under  the  shadow  of  that  mountain.  Sinbad  assem- 
bled us  on  the  deck. 

"The  time  has  come,  my  brothers,"  he  began, 
"to  reveal  our  destination. 

"This  is  the  Island  of  False  Images,  last  visited 
a world's  age  ago  by  the  merchant  captain  Kedron 
of  Tyre.  The  men  of  Phoenicia  guarded  the  secret 
jealously,  but  in  time  it  passed  to  the  Greeks.  The 
knowledge  was  hidden  in  the  great  library  of  Alex- 
andria, which  perished  in  fire  long  before  the  Faith 


Twilighi  Zone  43 


e(3x«kt  ^>uii»eu:L 


came  to  Egypt;  but  one  account  of  the  journey  was 
kept  in  a repository  in  Byzantium.  ' 

"From  there  it  passed  into  the  keeping  of  a 
fellowship  of  Christian  monks  in  the  Sinai,  where  it 
remains.  I saw  it  many  years  ago,  stopping  over  on 
a caravan  from  Damascus  to  Cairo,  and  kept  all  the 
details  in  my  mind. 

"Now  we  are  come  to  this  ancient  place,  and 
tomorrow  we  will  land  where  no  man's  foot  has  trod 
for  twice  a thousand  years." 

Above  us  the  mountain  loomed  like  a dark 
tower,  blotting  out  the  stars.  The  waves  broke  sil- 
very on  a black  shore.  No  bird  called. 

"If  the  old  writings  speak  the  truth,"  said  Sin- 
bad,  "we  will  find  here  the  birthplace  of  man." 

lasphemy!"  cried  Harufa,  and  the  sailors 
muttered  their  assent.  "Did  not  God  mold 
men  from  clots  of  blood?" 

"I  speak  of  things  before  man's  birth,"  said 
Sinbad,  "nor  is  it  blasphemy  to  explore  any  land 
that  God  has  made.  Maybe  the  old  writings  are  lies, 
which  it  would  ease  my  mind  to  know.  But  Allah 
would  not  let  us  build  ships  if  he  did  not  mean  us  to 
• sail  them."  * 

"So?"  challenged  Harufa,  "May  not  a man  do 
many  things  unpleasing  to  the  sight  of  God?" 

"Aye,"  Sinbad  agreed,  "but  you  have  sailed 
with  me  on  many  voyages,  Harufa;  have  you  ever 
known  me  to  offend  the  Lord?" 

"You  have  followed  the  path  of  the  Prophet," 
conceded  the  mate. 

"Then  trust  me  one  more  time,"  the  captain 

said. 

r slept  but  ill,  a prey  to  frightful  dreams  in  which 
serpents  glided  silently  through  empty  halls  and 
foul  ophidian  shapes  stalked  obscenely  through 
the  shadows.  When  I awoke  wearily,  it  was  not 
quite  dawn,  but  most  of  the  crew  were  already  astir. 

"Scribe!"  Harufa  called.  "You  will  be  with  the 
landing  party.  The  captain  has  ordered." 

Arms  folded  across  his  chest,  Sinbad  waited 
for  his  men  to  prepare  the  boat.  His  scimitar,  a gift 
from  the  Caliph,  was  buckled  to  his  belt.  He  stood 
erect  as  a general  on  parade,  trying  to  peer  through 
the  forests  on  the  shore. 

"Ready,  sir,"  Husain  the  Weaver's  Son 
reported. 

"Board,"  said  the  captain,  "and  lower  away." 
We  took  our  places  in  the  boat,  four  of  us 
plus  Sinbad  and  Harufa,  and  were  lowered  gently  to 
the  waves.  The  sea  was  calm  that  day.  We  rowed 
easily,  riding  the  surf  until  we  scraped  our  keel  upon 
the  dark  sands.  We  pulled  the  boat  ashore,  moored 
it  to  a tree,  and  made  ready  to  explore  the  island. 

"There  are  no  men  here,"  Sinbad  said,  "but 
keep  your  swords  ready  nevertheless."  > 

He  found  a path  and  led  us  into  the  forest, 
single  file. 


High  over  our  heads  grew  strange  trees  with 
scaly  bark  and  fleshy  leaves.  I looked  in  vain  for  a 
bird,  but  there  were  insects  everywhere — gaudy  scar- 
let butterflies,  lumbering  beetles  the  size  of  children's 
fists,  tiny  midges  that  swirled  in  living  clouds,  and 
great  black  flies  that  buzzed  past  our  ears. 

We  walked  without  speaking,  hands  on  the 
hilts  of  our  weapons,  craning  our  necks  to  see  the 
exotic  foliage.  Sinbad  led,  taking  firm  and  even 
strides;  Harufa  guarded  the  rear  with  a drawn 
sword.  Husain's  turban  bobbed  in  front  of  me.  He 
was  getting  on  in  years,  his  leg  pained  him,  and  he 
walked  with  a crooked  gait.  Yet  he  had  strength  in 
his  arms  to  lift  me  off  my  feet. 

The  path  led  upward,  and  as  we  followed  it 
the  woods  thinned  and  the  ground  became  hard  and 
rocky.  We  emerged  from  the  forest  onto  a bleak 
plateau. 

Before  us  lay  a marvelous  sight. 

"Behold,"  said  Sinbad,  "the  first  of  the 
images." 

We  approached  cautiously.  I have  seen  the 
ruins  of  Babylon,  and  sketched  pagan  idols  in  the 
mountains  of  Elam,  but  this  colossus  dwarfed  them. 

It  was  hewn  from  black  stone,  black  and  hard 
as  the  sacred  stone  in  the  holy  Ka'aba,  carved  with 
rude  but  masterly  strokes.  Time  had  obliterated 
much  of  it,  but  I could  see  it  was  not  meant  to  rep- 
resent a man. 

" 'Tis  a jinn!"  whispered  Husain. 

"I  know  not  what  it  is,"  spoke  our  captain, 
"but  it  is  not  a jinn.  See,  there  is  writing  here." 

I looked  at  it  closely.  I can  read  the  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Armenian  scripts,  but  this  was  something 
alien.  The  glyphs  flowed  together  like  a brood  of 
snakes  and  seemed  to  writhe  across  the  stone. 

"I  cannot  read  it,"  I admitted. 

"If  no  men  live  here,"  Harufa  wondered,  "then 
who  raised  this  monstrosity  and  wrote  this  unknown 
script?" 

"According  to  the  scroll  I read,"  Sinbad 
replied,  "the  precursors  of  men." 

"Wullah!"  the  mate  snorted.  "Will  you  tell  us 
a camel  wrote  it,  then?  Be  guided  by  the  Prophet; 
before  men,  there  were  only  animals,  jinns,  angels, 
and  devils." 

"It  is  Satan's  work!"  muttered  a sailor,  Habib 
al-Djekr.  The  others  glanced  about  fearfully,  but  we 
were  alone 'on  the  plateau. 

"Peace,  Habib!"  Sinbad  soothed  him.  "Trust 
in  Allah.  He  is  everywhere." 

e continued  to  march  inland,  but  I paid 
scant  attention  to  the  route.  I was  trying  to 
resolve  a difficult  question. 

Presuming  the  old  Phoenician  reports  were 
true  — indeed,  they  had  guided  us  here,  where  no 
man  had  journeyed  for  twice  a thousand  years 
— who  had  raised  up  that  monument?  The  images 
were  here  when  Kedron  came,  but  no  men.  So  either 


44  Twilight  Zone 


As  we 

approached  the  town, 
its  alien  nature 
became  apparent. 

men  had  lived  here  and  departed  long  before  the 
Tyrians  arrived,  or  the  images  had  been  carved  and 
set  in  place  by  other  than  human  hands. 

I came  to  no  conclusion,  but  the  effort  left  me 
considerably  unnerved.  And  so,  I judged  by  their 
faces,  were  my  companions.  We  advanced  timorous- 
ly, as  gazelles  approaching  a water  hole  where 
hunters  were  known  to  lie  in  wait. 

Only  Sinbad  marched  with  confidence,  his 
aged  shoulders  straight. 

e came  next  to  a line  of  three  images  upon 
a platform  of  black  basalt;  and  even  this 
hardest  of  rock  was  noticeably  weathered. 
The  base  of  the  platform  was  covered  with 
inscriptions. 

“Captain,"  spoke  an  old  one-eyed  sailor, 
Shirkuh  of  Kurdistan,  "let  us  go  back  to  the  ship. 
This  is  an  unholy  place." 

Sinbad  looked  at  him  with  compassion. 

"Have  we  not  been  in  unholy  places  in  our 
time,  Shirkuh?"  he  asked.  "Have  we  not  pillaged  the 
nest  of  the  roc  and  entered  the  lairs  of  dragons?" 

"He  is  right.  Captain!"  Husain  spoke  up.  "Did 
the  scrolls  you  studied  say  nothing  of  the  nature  of 
these  images?  What  are  they?  Maybe  if  we  knew 
that,  we  would  be  bolder." 

"Maybe  if  you  knew,"  countered  Sinbad, 
"you  would  turn  and  flee  like  mice!"  He  smiled, 
showing  all  his  white  teeth,  and  his  dark  eyes 
twinkled.  "In  truth,  the  meaning  of  these  monuments 
is  not  known." 

"Then  why,"  I ventured,  "did  the  Phoenicians 
believe  them  to  be  the  work  of  man's  precursors?" 

"It  would  be  well  to  tell  us  everything,  sir," 
added  Harufa.  "We  shall  not  fail  you." 

Sinbad  paused,  contemplating  the  three 
monoliths.  Each  stood  taller  than  a camel's  hump. 

"I  have  told  you  most  of  it  already,"  he  said 
at  last.  "Kedron  encountered  no  living  thing  on  this 
island,  save  the  little  wild  creatures  of  the  forest. 
Yet  in  the  center  of  the  island,  on  the  floor  of  an 
ancient  volcanic  crater,  he  found  a deserted  city, 
which  he  explored  somewhat.  The  dimensions  of  the 
buildings,  he  reported,  were  such  as  would  not  ac- 
commodate any  race  of  men;  and  they  were  incon- 
ceivably old,  older  than  the  pyramids.  Kedron  was  a 
great  traveler,  and  not  likely  to  be  deceived.  From 
the  appearance  of  the  city,  he  reasoned  that  it  could 
not  have  been  a home  for  men  like  us. 

"He  would  have  explored  further,  but  his  men 
lost  their  courage  and  mutinied.  He  had  to  depart 
the  island,  leaving  its  mysteries  intact. 

"Now  this  was  long  ago,  before  the  Prophet 


revealed  the  word  of  God.  The  faithful  may  walk 
where  infidels  fear  to  tread,  knowing  that  Allah  has 
assigned  to  every  man  his  fate.  Or  do  I overestimate 
your  hardihood?" 

"No!"  we  shouted  with  one  voice. 

"Lead  us  to  the  city,"  said  Harufa,  "for  the 
glory  of  God." 

We  reached  the  lip  of  the  crater  by  noon,  and 
beheld  the  nameless  city  nesting  amid  the  rocks. 
From  our  distance  it  seemed  like  any  other  ruin.  But 
no  vestiges  of  roads  radiated  from  that  labyrinth  of 
stone;  it  was  as  if  the  hand  of  a jinn  had  dropped  it 
from  the  sky  into  the  midst  of  the  crater. 

We  descended,  cinders  crunching  under  our 
boots.  As  we  approached  the  town,  its  alien  nature 
became  apparent.  Something  was  wrong  with  the 
city's  geometry;  we  saw  hollow  doors  and  windows 
positioned  at  dubious  angles,  and  streets  tilting 
drunkenly  to  one  side,  as  if  thrown  off  the  level  by 
an  earthquake. 

There  were  tall  buildings,  and  massive,  but 
without  grace.  All  were  made  of  heavy  blocks  of 
basalt,  rough-hewn,  fitted  together  with  no  sign  of 
mortar,  so  closely  that  a man  might  not  insert  a dag- 
ger blade  between  the  cracks. 

“Wullah!"  exclaimed  Shirkuh.  "See  how  the 
streets  rise  and  disappear!" 

"It  is  a trick  of  the  eye,"  said  Sinbad,  "as 
when  one  dips  a rod  into  a pool  of  clear  water  and 
the  rod  appears  to  bend.  Do  not  be  afraid." 

"But  those  buildings!"  cried  Habib  al-Djekr. 
"Why  do  they  not  fajl  down?" 

There  is  a tower  in  India,  they  say,  that  leans 
unnaturally,  like  a spear  thrust  into  damp  sand.  I 
have  never  seen  it,  but  it  is  said  to  have  stood  for 
many  years.  I wonder  if  it  leans  like  the  structures  in 
this  nameless  city. 

"I  know  not,"  admitted  Sinbad,  "but  if  they 
have  stood  like  this  since  Kedron's  day,  they  will 
stand  a little  longer.  They  will  not  fall  on  us." 

There  were  doors — I believe  they  were  doors 
— sunk  halfway  into  the  street,  and  others  raised 
several  feet  above  it.  One  could  not  enter  a building 
without  climbing,  standing  on  a comrade's  shoul- 
ders, stooping,  or  crawling  on  one's  belly.  Now  1 
understood  why  the  Phoenicians  had  ascribed  the 
work  to  nothing  human. 

"Come,"  said  Sinbad.  "The  building  that  I 
seek  is  in  the  middle  of  the  city." 

And  he  led  us  over  the  tilted  streets. 

The  great  pile  of  basalt  was  wider  at  the  roof 
than  at  the  base,  like  an  inverted  pyramid, 
and  capped  by  a dome  of  green  gneiss  that 
seemed  to  turn,  in  upon  itself.  No  man  can  describe 
the  streets  that  led  to  it.  At  times  we  seemed  like 
flies  walking  on  a wall,  but  were  not  conscious  of 
any  effort  of  climbing.  Yet  at  last  we  stood  before 
the  structure  that  the  captain  said  was  called  a tem- 
ple by  the  Phoenicians. 


Twilight  Zone  45 


"A  temple,"  put  in  Harufa,  "to,  the  Devil,  not 
to  God." 

"We  will  go  inside,"  said  Sinbad.  "Draw  your 
swords." 

"But  Captain!"  Husain  protested.  "Was  it  not 
written  that  this  city  is  uninhabited  by  man  or 
beast?  Whom  have  we  to  draw  our  swords  against?" 

But  this  question  he  would  not  answer. 

We  found  a high,  narrow  door  set  above  the 
street,  about  the  height  of  a man's  knee.  Sinbad,  the 
blade  of  his  scimitar  glittering,  was  the  first  to  climb 
into  the  shadows,  Harufa  following.  Shirkuh  and 
Habib  remained  outside  to  guard — against  what,  none 
could  say.  They  looked  like  condemned  men  await- 
ing the  executioner. 

By  the  time  I crept  through  the  door  and  tip- 
toed down  a steep  ramp  to  a wide  floor,  they  were 
already  lighting  the  torches  Harufa  carried  in  his 
pack.  The  pitch  that  saturated  the  wood  sputtered  as 
the  flames  grew  bright,  illuminating  the  vast  hall  in 
which  we  found  ourselves. 

“Wullah!"  Husain  muttered.  "I  feel  like  the 
Prophet  Jonah  in  the  belly  of  the  whale!" 

It  was  not  like  standing  in  any  hall  in  the 
world  of- men,  not  even  the  great  church  of  Hagia 
Sophia  in  Byzantium  of  the  Greeks.  We  could  not 
see  the  ceiling,  and  the  angle  of  the  floor  made  one 
dizzy.  Husain's  observation  had  been  to  the  point. 

A short  distance  away  a group  of  images 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  like  a council  of 
frozen,  misshapen  giants. 

"Let  us  study  them,"  said  Sinbad. 

Within  the  temple — if  temple  it  was— the  im- 
ages were  protected  from  the  wind  and  rain.  No  ero- 
sion had  erased  the  hideous  details  of  their  features. 

Husain  began  to  pray. 

As  for  me,  I examined  the  monuments  with 
an  unwilling  fascination.  There  was  a deadly  beauty 
to  them,  like  the  iridescent  sheen  of  a scorpion's  ar- 
mor. I could  not  lear  my  eyes  away. 

They  were  the  effigies  of  creatures  that  might 
infest  the  blackest  bowels  of  hell,  beings  that  will 
stalk  my  nightmares  forever.  In  form  they  were  like 
serpents — but  no  serpents  that  ever  saw  the  light  of 
day.  They  stood  erect  like  men,  with  their  tails 
coiled  around  their  squat,  stumpy  legs;  and  they  had 
hands  like  lizards,  ending  in  curved  claws.  Their 
heads  were  round  in  the  back,  with  long  faces  taper- 
ing to  flattened  points,  and  expressionless  eyes  set  on 
either  side — reptiles'  eyes. 

The  group  was  assembled  around  a cyclopean 
table  or  altar.  On  it,  taking  shape  under  their  hands, 
was  the  form  of  a man.  It  was  incomplete;  it  had  no 
face. 

"Captain!" 

Harufa's  cry  broke  the  spell.  I turned  to  look. 
Sinbad  had  collapsed  into  the  mate's  arms,  his  body 
quivering  like  a dead  leaf  in  the  wind;  his  jaw  slack. 

"Water!  Hurry!" 

Husain  uncapped  the  waterskin  and  splashed 


the  captain's  face.  Sinbad  shook  his  head,  took  a 
deep  breath,  and  regained  his  feet.  Yet  now  he 
looked  his  age. 

"So  it  was  true."  He  sighed.  "Cursed  be  the 
day  I saw  that  scroll!  For  I read  that  the  creatures 
were  depicted  in  the  act  of  making  a man,  and  it 
haunted  me  all  my  days  till  now." 

"But  only  God  can  make  a man,"  Husain,  in 
his  simple  faith,  pointed  out.  "These  images  are 
blasphemy,  nothing  more." 

"Aye,"  agreed  Harufa,  "there  is  no  authority 
here.  Are  we  to  believe  the  Prophet,  or  the  stone- 
work of  nameless  infidels?" 

Sinbad  looked  at  me  and  I turned  away, 
understanding  his  despair.  For  men  had  not  built  this 
city,  nor  had  men  sculpted  this  group  of  statues. 
They  had  not  been  meant  for  human  eyes.  The  art 
was  monstrous,  yet  in  all  likelihood  it  depicted  an 
event  in  history. 

May  Allah  forgive  me  that  thought! 

"Have  you  marked  well  what  you  see  here, 
Rashid?" 

I could  only  nod  my  head. 

"Are  you  prepared  to  tell  of  it  in  the  Caliph's 
court?" 

"Captain,"  I replied,  "they  would  strike  off 
my  head  for  uttering  such  a blasphemy." 

"As  well  they  should,"  he  muttered. 

e climbed  back  out  to  the  street.  Before  we 
sailed  from  the  island,  we  knew  we  must 
find  water.  Then  the  long  journey  back  to 
Basra  and  Baghdad. 

"Wullah,  Captain!"  cried  Habib  when  Sinbad 
emerged  from  the  door.  "Why  tarried  you  so  long? 
See,  it  is  almost  dark!" 

We  looked  up  in  wonder.  The  new  moon  had 
risen,  and  the  stars  were  beginning  to  peek  through 
the  dusky  sky. 

"What!"  growled  Harufa.  "We  were  only 
within  the  temple  for  a few  minutes." 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  swore  Shirkuh,  "you 
passed  the  better  part  of  the  day  in  there!  See,  the 
sun  has  set." 

It  was  true.  The  silver  disc  of  the  full  moon 
already  shone  in  the  darkling  sky.  We  all  looked  up 
and  marveled  at  it. 

Then  Sinbad  grew  grim;  his  eyes  were  like 
iron,  the  muscles  on  his  neck  like  cords  of  brass.  I 
almost  feared  him  then;  but  presently  he  smiled  like 
a man  who  sees  through  a juggler's  trick,  and  the 
strength  and  vigor  flowed  back  into  his  body. 

"Return  with  me  inside,"  he  commanded,  "all 
of  you." 

Utterly  confused,  we  followed  him  into  the 
temple  and  relit  the  torches.  Shadows  hid  the  details 
of  the  images  from  Habib  and  Shirkuh,  who  were 
not  inclined  to  examine  them  more  closely. 

Sinbad  silenced  all  our  qciestions. 

"Be  still,"  he  said,  "and  wait.  K?ep  your 


46  Twilight  Zone 


vO 


weapons  ready.  We  may  be  called  upon  to  battle  for 
the  Faith.  Wullah!  There  is  Satan's  mark  on  this 
place.  But  I begin  to  understand." 

So  we  waited — for  how  long,  none  of  us  could 
say.  Within  that  accursed  temple  time  danced  to  a 
different  measure. 

No  noise  intruded  from  the  streets  of  the  dead 
city.  The  torches  crackled  like  bonfires,  then  burned 
low.  Sinbad  ordered  them  extinguished,  plunging  the 
chamber  into  darkness. 

My  companions  were  all  around  me,  yet  I felt 
alone  with  my  thoughts.  Sinbad  was  waiting  for 
something;  but  however  1 taxed  my  poor  store  of 
wisdom,  I could  not  think  what  it  was.  The  trick  of 
time  seemed  to  have  sparked  some  intuition  in  him. 
For  me  it  inspired  only  fear  and  wonderment. 

Outside  the  moon  rose — or  was  something  else 
the  source  of  the  pale,  cold  light  that  flowed  into 
that  unhallowed  crypt?  One  could  not  be  sure.  But 
the  light  crept  past  us  like  a lazy  tide,  and  rested  on 
that  hideous  statuary  The  huge  reptilian  forms  were 
grey,  but  the  faceless  human  figure  glimmered  a 
leprous  white. 

"There!"  Sinbad  whispered  harshly,  pointing 
with  his  blade.  We  could  see  each  other  now. 
"Behold!" 

Allah  have  mercy.  The  monuments  stirred. 

One  by  one,  the  great  stone  heads  pivoted  si- 
lently on  their  bulky  necks.  A coiled  tail  slid  from  a 
pair  of  colossal  ankles  and  snaked  slowly  across  the 
floor.  A pair  of  massive  talons  flexed,  like  the  hands 
of  an  old  man  warming  to  a fire. 

The  human  figure  on  the  table  twitched  like  a 

grub. 

Like  monstrous  crabs,  the  claws  of  the  ophid- 
ian giants  moved  deftly  and  obscenely  over  the 
white  stone  that  was  like  naked  flesh,  molding  it  like 
clay.  We  watched  as  birds  enthralled  by  the  cobra's 
dance.  But  for  the  strained  beating  of  our  hearts,  the 
chamber  was  silent. 

Stone  talons  settled  on  the  round  white  head 
and  began  to  mold  a face. 

"See!"  Sinbad  muttered.  "They  fashion  a 
man,  or  the  semblance  of  a man." 

He  rubbed  a callused  thumb  along  the  edge  of 
his  scimitar. 

"With  this  sword,  I have  slain  a roc  and 
defied  the  walking  dead.  It  was  forged  in  Damascus 
of  finest  steel  and  blessed  by  a holy  imam.  Now  I 
will  test  it  once  again." 

He  stepped  boldly  out  of  the  concealing 
shadows  and  bellowed  the  war  cry  of  the  Faith: 
“Allah  akbar!"  His  courage  drew  us  with  him;  even 
I,  Rashid  the  Scribe,  gripped  the  unfamiliar  cutlass 
in  my  soft  scribe's  hands  and  bellowed  with  the  rest. 
The  ancient  hall  resounded  with  our  cries. 

The  great  reptilian  shapes  continued  with 
their  work,  unheeding.  Our  challenges  died  on  our 
lips. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Captain!"  cried  Harufa. 


How  shall  1 express  what  I saw  then?  The 
human  figure  had  a face,  but  it  was  not  a human 
face.  It  was  that  of  a serpent. 

The  light  grew  stronger.  We  saw  everything 
clearly.  The  human  body  on  the  slab  was  perfect  in 
every  respect,  but  for  cold  and  lifeless  skin— and  the 
flat,  wide-mouthed  face  that  seemed  to  be  the  face  of 
an  asp.  By  the  power  of  Satan,  it  moved.  The  lipless 
mouth  gaped  open,  revealing  fangs  and  a split 
tongue.  We  stood  in  our  little  group  like  foolish  beg- 
gars in  the  Caliph's  court,  uncomprehending  and 
afraid. 

The  stone  demons  paused  in  their  work,  as  if 
to  admire  its  completion.  The  horror  on  the  slab 
rose  to  a sitting  posture.  The  wan  light  of  the 
chamber  danced  in  its  cold,  lidless  eyes.  And  it 
looked  at  us. 

"There  is  no  God  but  God!"  sobbed  Husain 
the  Weaver's  Son.  "Captain,  let  us  destroy  this 
blasphemy!" 

Sinbad  stood  in  silence,  a man  bemused. 
Every  one  of  his  long,  hard  years  seemed  stamped 
upon  his  face.  Yet  an  inner  flame  flickered  in  his 
eyes,  and  his  hands  on  his  sword  did  not  shake. 

"An  age  might  pass  in  the  world,"  he  said, 
perhaps  to  himself,  "while  here  a little  hour  or  two 
trickled  by.  Here  yesterday  becomes  tomorrow,  and 
today  a thousand  years  hence." 

We  understood  nothing,  even  as  his  voice 
rose  and  filled  the  chamber:  "You  were  wrong,  O 
Kedron!  God's  will  be  done!" 

His  men  cried  out  again,  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  jihad;  or  maybe  the  unholy  thing  they  saw 
aroused  such  terror  as  could  only  be  endured  by 
assailing  its  source,  even  as  a cornered  hare  will  leap 
at  a hunting  cheetah.  They  were  old  men,  and  time 
pressed  on  them  like  heavy  cloaks  of  earth;  but 
when  Sinbad  lifted  his  sword,  they  followed  him. 
Only  I,  the  youngest,  hung  back.  My  shame  was 
great;  it  burned  my  soul  like  molten  glass.  Yet  some 
greater  power  held  me  motionless. 

One  of  the  stone  giants  turned  from  its  work, 
the  huge  head  pivoting  ponderously  upon  its  shoul- 
ders like  the  great  gate  of  Antioch  upon  its  hinge. 
The  stone  jaws  creaked  open.  Sinbad  halted,  his  men 
behind  him;  they  stood  like  children  before  a wrath- 
.a 


Twilight  Zone  47 


1 

r 


~TlLe.^Qx6t\^>^(BLepe.  o^^^u/JaeuL 


ful  father,  looking  up  in  awe. 

On  the  slab  the  half-formed  manlike  thing 
gazed  down  at  us  in  silence.  Then  its  lipless  mouth 
split  into  a grin — the  grin  of  a basking  crocodile.  Its 
forked  tongue  flickered  obscenely  toward  us.  I,  who 
have  seen  an  asp  taste  the  air  around  a fear-beguiled 
quail,  would  have  averted  my  eyes;  but  like  the 
quail,  I was  fettered  by  what  they  beheld. 

The  creature  stirred  its  cold  white  limbs,  as  if 
to  descend  from  the  slab;  and  it  seemed  my  shudder- 
ing flesh  could  feel  already  its  devouring  fangs. 

But  the  blessing  on  the  sword  gave  strength  to 
Sinbad's  arms,  and  like  a falcon  mounting  the  wind, 
he  rose  above  the  horror's  spell.  Gripping  the  sword 
in  both  hands  high  over  his  head,  he  advanced  and 
brought  it  down.  The  holy  blade  struck  a shower  of 
sparks  from  a white  thigh  stretched  over  the  edge  of 
the  slab.  It  rose  and  fell  like  a smith's  hammer  until 
suddenly  it  shattered.  But  by  then  the  hellish  crea- 
ture was  a jumble  of  white  fragments. 

Harufa  came  after  his  captain,  and  thrust  his 
blade  into  the  side  of  an  ophidian  giant.  It  passed 
easily  through  the  stone,  if  stoqe  it  was,  stopping  at 
'the  hilt.  I Beard,  above  me,  a sharp  hiss,  as  of  escap- 
ing steam.  From  the  open  jaws  of  the  first  giant  a 
red  mist  was  issuing,  filling  the  chamber  like  a fog  of 
blood.  Husain  coughed  loudly  and  clutched  at  his 
chest;  his  sciiriitar  fell  from  his  nerveless  hands,  clat- 
tering on  the  rocky  floor. 

One  of  the  behemoths  reached  out  and  tried 
to  mold  the  white  creature's  asplike  head;  but  there 
was  nothing  there  to  mold. 

And  now  the  stone  gods  seemed  to  fill  my 
eyes,  standing  taller  than  mountains.  Around  them, 
like  drunken  pygmies,  staggered  the  men,  blinded 
and  choking.  Other  stone  jaws  parted,  and  the  mist 
grew  thicker,  like  a destroying  cloud  of  locusts.  No 
longer  did  the  stone  giants  move;  yet  they  spewed 
out  death,  like  erupting  volcanoes.  There  was  a 
roaring  in  my  ears,  as  of  mighty  waters. 

I fell  into  a black  pit  where  there  was  neither 
sight  nor  sound. 

ain  plucked  me  from  my  trance.  My  lungs 
ached,  and  my  mouth  was  as  dry  as  parch- 
ment. My  skull  throbbed  with  the  beating 
of  my  heart  as  I struggled  to  sit  up. 

The  monuments  were  lifeless  rock,  even  as 
before.  The  handle  of  Harufa'S  sword  protruded 
stiffly  from  a giant's  unfeeling  side. 

Somehow  I found  the  strength  to  clamber  to 
my  feet. 

The  floor  of  the  chamber  was  strewn  with  the 
bodies  of  my  friends,  mere  dry  and  lifeless  husks. 
They  were  as  dead  leaves  flung  down  by  the  wind: 
ancient  Husain  with  dried  blood  in  his  white  beard, 
old  Shirkuh  with  his  turban  unbound  and  coiled 
about  his  shoulders  like  the  cerements  of  the  grave. 
And  the  others,  the  aged  heroes — deserted  by  their 


Its  lipless 
mouth  split 
into  a grin — 
the  grin  of 
a basking 
crocodile. 

strength,  but  not  by  God,  For  surely  they  had  died 
as  ghazis,  swords  raised  against  the  enemies  of 
Allah. 

A gasp  of  pain  broke  the  silence  of  that  dark 
place.  I crept  forward  and  found  Sinbad,  dying.  He 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  stone  table,  his  body  drained 
of  vigor;  but  his  eyes  gleamed  like  bright  jewels  in 
the  hilt  of  the  Caliph's  sword.  I knelt  and  cradled  his 
head,  restraining  my  tears.  He  was  like  the  ruin  of 
some  great  palace  swept  by  desert  sands,  one  poor 
pillar  still  evoking  memories  of  majesty  and  pomp. 

"My  course  is  nearly  run,  my  friend,"  he 
panted. 

"What  were  they.  Captain?" 

"I  had  taken  them  for  the  past,"  he  whispered 
faintly,  "but  that  was  a snare  and  a delusion.  What 
they  shaped  was  not  for  the  beginning,  but  the  end. 
Praise  be  to  Allah!" 

' "The  end?"  I cried.  "The  end  of  what?"  But  it 
seemed  he  could  not  hear  me. 

So  perished  Sinbad,  noblest  of  men.  May 
Allah  welcome  his  soul  to  Paradise. 

Wearily  I eased  his  head  to  the  floor  and 
stood  up.  The  horror  on  the  slab,  sundered  into 
fragments  by  Sinbad's  blade,  lay  in  broken  disarray, 
the  work  of  twice  a thousand  years  undone. 

There  is  little  else  to  tell.  I came  forth  from 
the  temple,  and  it  was  day — what  day,  I 
know  not.  Dazed,  I stumbled  through  the 
mad  streets  until  I was  free  of  the  city. 

I know  not  for  how  long  I wandered.  My 
thoughts  were  a tortured  maze.  They  grappled  with 
the  horror  I had  seen  unveiled.  What  was  begun 
once  might  begin  again.  What  was  shaped  once 
might  be  shaped  anew. 

I am  only  a scribe.  I can  only  tell  what  I saw. 
Let  wiser  men  pronounce  upon  its  meanings.  Let 
them  send  a fleet  of  warriors,  well  armed. 

I wandered  long,  unheeding  night  or  day. 
And  at  length  I returned  to  the  beach  under  the 
mountain. 

The  ship  had  sailed. 

Nearby  I found  the  rotting  fragments  of  the 

boat. 

May  Allah  sustain  me.  10 


48  Twilight  Zone 


A PSYCHOTIC  ASSASSIN  STALKS  THE 
PRESIDENT'S  NIGHTMARES  IN  THE 
LATEST  OF  THE  RECENT  CROP  OF 
INWARD-LOOKING  SF  FILMS. 

JAMES  VERNIERE  REPORTS. 


ver  since  the  first  primitive  human  realized  that  he 
went  "somewhere  else"  while  his  body  slept,  people 
have  been  fascinated  by  the  undiscovered  land  that 
exists  in  our  dreams.  For  some — the  aborigines  of 
Australia,  for  example,  and  the  Senoi  of  Malaysia — 
dream  life  is  as  significant  and  real  as  waking  life.  In 
fact,  the  Senoi  encourage  their  children  to  confront  the 
beasts  of  their  dreams,  to  fight  them,  and  to  defeat  them 
— no  doubt  familiar  advice  to  Westerners  who  have  spent 
their  hard-earned  money  on  the  analyst's  couch,  yet  still  a 
testament  to  the  universal  significance  of  dreams. 

It  is  this  frightening  but  seductive  world  of 
dreams  that  is  the  setting  for  much  of  the  action  in  Joe 
Ruben's  aptly  titled  Dreamscape.  A moderately  budgeted 
science  fiction  film  that  appears  to  have  some  themes  in 
common  with  Brainstorm  and  The  Dead  Zone  ("We'd 
like  to  put  a little  distance  between  us,"  says  director 
Ruben),  Dreamscape  is  the  story  of  a psychic  named 
Alex  Gardner  (Dennis  Quaid  of  The  Right  Stuff)  who— 
with  the  aid  of  a dream-linking  device — can  enter  into 
the  dreams  of  others  and  finds  himself  involved  in  a 
bizarre  plot  to  assassinate  the  President  of  the  United 
States  while  he  dreams. 

But  this  dream-death  will  also  be  a real  one,  for 
in  Dreamscape  the  old  wives'  tale  is  true:  If  you  die  in 
your  dreams,  you  die  in  real  life  from  the  shock  of  it. 
And  in  Dreamscape  this  "dream  murder"  becomes  a 
potential  perfect  crime. 

Despite  the  formulaic  nature  of  the  plot,  involving 
idealistic  scientists  whose  discovery  is  put  to  twisted 
purpose  by  nefarious  government  cigencies,  Dreamscape 
boasts  a unique  combination  of  cast  and  crew. 


1.  The  President  of  the  United  States  (Eddie  Aibert,  who  ironicaily 
costarred  with  Ronaid  Reagan  in  the  1938  fiim  Brother  Rat) 
teiis  the  sinister  Blair  (Christopher  Plummer),  head  of  a 
covert  government  agency,  of  his  recurring  nightmares. 

2.  Dr.  Novotny  (Max  Von  Sydow),  head  of  the  experi- 
mental dream  laboratory,  gazes  at  psychic  Alex 
Gardner  (Dennis  Quaid  of  The  Right  Stuff)  as 
he  “dream-links”  with  one  of  Novotny’s 
troubled  patients. 

3.  Gardner  enters  the  hair-raising 
nightmare  of  an  Iron  worker 
plagued  by  a fear  of  falling. 

4.  Gardner  grapples  with  the 
Snake  Man,  a figure  from  the 
recurring  nightmare  of  a 
tormented  boy  who  will 
die  if  he  doesn't  con- 
front the  terror  of  his 


i 


i 

r 
r 

r 


Warner  Bros. 


JAMES  VERNIERE  TALKS  TO  A 
DREAMSCAPE  STAR  WHO'LL 
SOON  BE  PLAYING  OPPOSITE 


EDDIE  MURPHY,  DUDLEY  MOORE, 
AND  HARRISON  FORD. 

When  opportunity  knocked  on  Kate 
Copshow's  door.  It  come  in  the  form  of 
E.T.  director  Steven  Spielberg,  who  cost 
the  young  actress  os  the  new  girlfriend 
of  America's  favorite  whip-toting  ar- 
chaeologist In  the  soorvto-be  released 
sequel  to  Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark.  Cap- 
shaw  will  play  a feisty  singer-dancer 
named  Willy  Scott  opposite  Harrison  Ford 
in  /nd/ono  Jones  and  the  Temple  of 
Doom,  whose  plot  Is,  as  usual,  cloaked  in 
'secrecy.  "I've  been  told  to  tell  you  roth- 
Ing,"  says  Capshaw,  as  we  sit  in  the 
Madison  Avenue  office  of  her  publicist. 

For  Capshaw,  the  plum  part  means 
Instant  Internatbnal  recognition— arvd  so 
does  her  forthcoming  appearance  in  Par- 
amount's The  Best  Defense,  starring 
Eddie  Murphy  and  Dudley  Moore.  Yes,  she 
has  already  garnered  high  praise  for  her 
performance  In  her  first  feature  film,  A Lit- 
tle Sex.  But  her  second  and  third  films— 
Armyan  Berstein's  Windy  City  and  Joe 
Ruben's  Dreamscape— have  not  even 
been  released,  so  being  cast  in  Indiana 
Jones  has  been  a dream  come  true. 

Yet  despite  the  fairy  tale  quality  of 
the  casting,  working  on  the  Raiders  se- 
quel has  been  something  of  a trial. 
When  Capshaw  arrives  for  our  inferview, 
her  btond  nnop  of  curls  still  wet  from  the 
shower,  she  looks  exhausted.  Dark  circles 
rx)t  quite  covered  by  makeup  ring  her 
eyes,  and  her  left  eye  looks  downright 
black  and  blue.  "So  you  noticed,''  she 
says.  "It  happened  on  location  in  Sri 
Lanka.  I got  hit  in  the  eye  with  the  prop 
stick.  I'll  tell  you,  there  hasn't  been  a day 
on  this  film  that  I haven't  had  a bruise  or 
a sprain  of  some  sort." 

What  becomes  of  Koren  Allen's 
character  in  Indiana  JonesR  I wonder 
aloud.  "Let's  get  this  straight,"  says  Cap- 
shaw, dead  sertously.  "I'm  rxDt  replacing 
her.  This  is  a completely  new  adventure 
that  takes  place  earlier  in  the  story." 

How  Kate  Capshaw  got  the  part  in 
the  first  place  Is  a study  in  the  art  of  risk-  « 
taking.  The  first  risk  she  took  was  giving  | 
up  her  life  in  Columbta,  Missouri,  where  J 
she  worked  as  a schoolteacher  and  lived  1 
with  her  husband  (a  high  school  prirv  | 
cipal)  and  her  young  daughter.  "Every-  s 
thing  in  my  life  was  slated  for  pure  hap-  ° 


piness,  and  yet  I felt  unfulfilled,"  says 
Capshaw.  "I  lived  in  a nice  house  on  a 
nice  street.  I had  a nice  job  and  a nice 
family,  but  I didn't  feel  challenged." 

So  Capshaw  and  her  family  moved 
from  Missouri  to  New  York  City,  where 
she  was  to  pursue  a career  as  a model 
^ while  her  husband  sought  work  as  a 
stockbroker.  To  the  skeptical,  modeling 
seems  hardly  the  career  for  a twenty- 
four-year-old  mother  with  a master's 
degree  in  special  education.  But  Cap- 
shaw Is  rvDthing  if  not  Fortuf^e's  darling. 
The  marriage  failed,  but  the  day  she 
walked  into  the  Ford  Agency,  she  was 
signed  up.  "It  was  a disappointing  expe- 
rience, though,  because  I wanted  the 
cover  of  Vogue,  but  all  I got  were  the 
J.C.  Penney  catalogues.  I felt  like  I had 
failed." 

So  Capshaw  went  from  modeling  to 
televiston,  where  she  appeared  as  ev- 
erything from  the  Faberge  girl,  to  the 
housewife  hawking  WIndex,  to  the  sultry 
siren  draped  across  a Toyota. 

From  commercials  she  moved  on  to 
daytime  soaps,  appearing  in  an  eight- 
week  stint  on  The  Edge  of  Night  as  a 
dying  actress  named  Jinx  Avery,  "From 
the  first  day  I was  dying,  dying,  dying, 
but  nobody  knew  what  I was  dying  from 
becouse  the  character  always  looked 
great.  Every  once  in  a while  they  had 
me  faint." 

With  the  commercials  and  a soap 
behind  her.  It  was  retatively  easy  for  this 
beautiful  blonde  to  break  into  films.  She 
ptayed  the  girl  who  got  away  In  A Little 
Sex  and  Windy  City,  and  a scientist  who 
specralizes  in  dream  therapy  in  Dream- 
scape. As  for  her  role  in  Indiana  Jones 
and  the  Temple  of  Doom.  Steven 
Spielberg  told  her  that  giving  her  the 
part  was  the  smartest  thing  he  ever  did. 

"But  I don't  know  whether  he  means 
in  his  life  or  just  in  this  movie,"  says 
Capshaw. 


5.  With  the  help  of 
Gardner,  a man 
suffering  from  sex- 
ual dysfunction 
faces  the  unfaith- 
ful wife  of  his 
dreams. 

6.  Tommy  Roy 
Glatmon  (David 
Patrick  Kelly), 
who's  both  psy- 
chic and  psychot- 
ic, threatens  to  kill 
Gardner  when 
pressed  about  the 
nature  of  his  secret 
work  for  Blair. 

7.  Makeup  expert 
Craig  Reardon 
(creator  of  the 
Gremlin  In  Twilight 
Zone— The  Movie) 
adjusts  one  of  the 
Snake  Man  suits 
worn  by  Kelly. 

8.  A dream  comes 
true  for  Gardner 
and  Dr.  Jane  De 
Vries  (Kate  Cap- 
show),  a member 
of  the  experimen- 
tal "dream  team." 


Capshaw  In  Windy 
City  (top  left)  and, 
as  Willie  Scott 
(below),  with  Har- 
rison Ford  In  In- 
diana Jones  and 
the  Temple  of 
Doom. 


52  Twilight  Zone 


DREAMSCAPE 

Costarring  with  Quaid  are  Kate  Capshaw  (costar  of  the 
forthcoming  Raiders  of  the  Lost  Ark  sequel)  as  Dr.  Jane 
De  Vries,  a member  of  the  experimental  "dream  team"; 
Max  Von  Sydow  as  Dr.  Paul  Novotny,  head  of  the 
dream-link  project;  Christopher  Plummer  (Murder  by 
Decree,  Eyewitness.  Silent  Partner)  as  Blair,  a menacing 
government  agent;  and  Eddie  Albert  as  the  President  of 
the  United  States,  a man  tormented  by  a recurring 
nightmare  about  nuclear  war. 

The  design  of  the  Snake  Man  is  the  work  of 
special  makeup  effects  expert  Craig  Reardon,  whose 
previous  credits  include  Twilight  Zone— The  Movie  (he 
created  Dan  Aykroyd's  monster  makeup  and  the  Gremlin 
for  the  Miller  segment).  Poltergeist  (the  "crawling  steak," 
the  decomposing  face,  and  the  animated  corpses — one  of 
which  is  now  featured  in  Billy  Idol's  video,  "Dancing 
with  Myself,"  directed  by  Tobe  Hooper),  and  Strange 
Behavior.  "I  was  still  working  on  the  Twilight  Zone 
movie  when  I was  hired  to  do  Dreamscape,"  says 
Reardon.  "My  job  was  to  create  the  three  different 
Snake  Man  designs  and  to  build  heads  for  the 
'replacement  animation'  sequences."  Reardon  admits  that 
he  can't  be  sure  how  his  work  will  show  up  on  the 
screen  until  he's  seen  the  final  film,  but  he  also  supplied 
twelve  "nuked"  corpses  for  the  "dream  subway"  scene, 
six  deformed  children,  and  two  mutant  dog  "suits" 
which  had  to  be  discarded  when  the  trained  dogs 
wouldn't  wear  them. 

Dreamscape's  technical  credits  are  impressive,  but 
one  X factor  remains:  director  Joe  Ruben,  whose 
previous  credits  do  little  to  reveal  whether  or  not  he  has 
a flair  for  genre  filmmaking.  A graduate  of  the 
University  of  Michigan,  where  he  studied  film,  Ruben 
has  extensive  television  credits  and  began  working  as  a 
director  for  Crown  International  for  whom  he  made  two 
films.  The  Sister-in-Law  and  Pom  Pom  Girls.  More 
recently,  Ruben  worked  for  AlP,  where  he  directed 
Joyride,  Our  Winning  Season,  and  Gorp.  His  most 
recent  effort  was  the  pilot  for  the  ABC  adaptation  of 
Breaking  Away. 


Twilight  Zone  53 


9.  In  the  final  confrontation, 
Glatman,  Gardner,  and  the 
President  of  the  United  States 
enter  Into  the  President's 
nightmare  vision  of  post- 
atomic  holocaust  America— 
In  this  cose,  a subway  full  of 
"nuked"  corpses, 
to.  The  Infantile  but  lethal 
Glatman  transforms  himself 
Into  a ninja  and  menaces 
the  President  with  a pair  of 
bladed  nunchakus. 

11.  Arrother  manifestation  of 
the  Snake  Man,  this  one  a 
product  of  Glatman’s  warped 
psyche,  moves  In  for  the  kill  In 
the  film's  climactic  final 
scenes. 


DREAMSCAPE 

Although  dreams  have  figured  prominently  in 
many  films,  from  the  expressionistic  visions  in  The 
Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari  to  the  simplistic,  "paint  by 
numbers"  dream  in  Still  of  the  Night,  Ruben  has  not 
been  influenced  by  the  dream  imagery  of  his 
predecessors.  "I  didn't  think  in  terms  of  other  movies," 
he  says.  "The  dreams  in  this  film  are  very  structured. 

We  shot  them  to  look  superrealistic,  to  get  a sense  of  a 
heightened  state." 

The  superrealism  of  Dreamscape  will  not, 
however,  include  any  nudity  or  excessive  gore  (the  film 
straddles  the  fence  between  PG  and  R right  now), 
despite  the  fact  that  the  most  memorable  dreams  are 
frequently  chock  full  of  sex  and  violence.  What,  then 
will  the  dreams  of  Dreamscape  reveal  to  us?  Will  they 
depict  a world  full  of  Jungian  archetypes  or  a bizarre 
gallery  of  Freudian  sexual  innuendoes?  Will  they  offer 
retreads  of  old  Twilight  Zones!  Or  will  Dreamscape  give 
us  just  another  Heavy  Concept  that  is  nothing  more 
than  an  excuse  for  gratuitous  special  effects?  You'll  see 
the  answer  soon  at  your  local  theater.  Who  knows? 

With  a little  luck,  Dreamscape  may  turn  out  to  be  one 
of  1984's  biggest  sleepers.  IQ 


Illustrations  by  Randy  Jorges 


5 *^gla^iSi5S^  <6^  V - ^ ^ 


M''"'  ’ 


IT  WAS  EASY  TO  REACH  PARADISE. 
ALL  YOU  HAD  TO  DO  WAS 
CLOSE  YOUR  EYES  AND  PUCKER  UP, 


# t was  the  thousandth  day.  He  had  started  in 
m September  of  1952,  and  here  it  was,  June  of 
'55.  He  had  counted  the  days,  making  tiny 
checks  on  a piece  of  paper  he  kept  in  his  wallet. 

A thousand  days  in  love  with  Marilyn  Taylor. 

For  the  thousandth  time  he  slipped  the  cover 
over  his  adding  machine,  plucked  off  his  cellophane 
cuffs,  and  locked  up  his  desk.  He  was  in  the  office 


Twilight  Zone  55 


^hr^er  ^uss 


but  he  was  really  in  Hollywood  imnfersed  in  a fan- 
cy, wallowing  in  cinemascopic  delights.  Instinct 
alone  put  the  coat  over  his  sparse  frame,  the  panama 
on  his  semi-bald  skull.  Habit  took  him  to  the 
elevator,  out  the  main  door  of  the  Lane  Building, 
and  down  the  steps  into  the  steamy  dimness  of  the 
subway,  where  he  was  shoe-horned  into  the  heat- 
laden train  by  a horde  of  nine-to- fivers.  He  hardly 
felt  the  bony  elbows,  though,  the  grunts  of  agony, 
the  snarled  complaints. 

Henry  Shrivel  was  dreaming. 

The  thousandth  day.  That  was  a record.  Never 
had  such  love  been  so  faithful,  he  thought  as  he 
swayed  with  the  motion  of  the  train.  Sweat  dripped 
off  his  face  as  he  thought  of  her. 

Then,  two  stations  after  he'd  gotten  on,  the 
mass  of  people  wedged  him  further  into  the  car.  He 
grabbed  a vacant  strap  and  slipped  back  into 
reverie.  The  train  was  halfway  across  the  bridge 
before  his  eyes  lighted  on  the  advertisement  at  his 
left.  His  mouth  popped  open,  his  pale  blue  eyes 
grew  wide. 

It  was  Her.  ^ 

She  was  standing  on  a tennis  court  smiling 
fondly  at  a cigarette  which  she  held  in  the  V of  her 
two  shapely  fingers.  Her  eyes  peered  into  Henry 
Shrivel's  soul. 

"Charnel  Cigarettes,"  she  was  commenting, 
"are  milder  and  tastier.  They  are  my  brand."  Signed: 
"Marilyn  Taylor,  Classic  Studios.  Now  appearing  in 
The  Karamazov  Boys." 

Henry  Shrivel  gazed  adoringly  at  her.  Her 
hair  was  blond  and  fluffy.  Her  eyes  were  cat  green, 
sultry,  inviting  him  to  blood-curdling  pleasures.  Her 
scarlet  lips  implored  to  be  taken. 

The  illustration  was  cut  off  where  the  line  of 
her  shoulders  began  the  inexorable  slope  into  her 
internationally  famed  bosom.  Hollywood's  most  lav- 
ish bust;  the  columnists  had  voted  her  that  signal 
horior.  And,  oh,  'tis  true,  'tis  true,  thought  Henry 
Shrivel  as  he  hung  glassy-eyed  from  the  subway 
strap. 

All  the  way  home  he  watched  her  standing  on 
the  tennis  court,  cool,  unruffled,  frozen  in  beauty. 
"Marilyn  is  quite  the  tennis  player."  Screen  Magazine 
had  said  it.  She  must  be;  here  was  incontrovertible 
evidence. 

Suddenly  a bolt  of  prescience  struck  Henry 
Shrivel  square  between  the  eyes.  It  was  a sign,  a 
most  definite  sign.  A clear  indication  that  tonight  his 
efforts  would  be  crowned  with  success. 

Tonight  he  would  hold  Marilyn  Taylor  in  his 

arms. 

He  got  off  at  the  last  stop  and  walked  slowly 
up  the  steps  onto  the  noisy  avenue.  He 
stepped  lightly  over  the  trolley  tracks,  ignor- 
ing the  taxi  cab  which  almost  knocked  him  down. 
Slowly  he  strolled  away  from  the  noise,  turned  a 


corner,  and  started  up  the  quiet,  tree-lined  street. 
The  thousandth  day,  he  thought. 


Or — to  be  explicit — the  thousandth  night. 

It  was  muggy  in  the  apartment.  It  smelled  of 
boiled  cabbage  and  drying  diapers.  For  the  moment, 
Henry  Shrivel  forced  reality  into  his  mind.  For  the 
last  time  he  would  play  the  role  of  doting  spouse. 

Bella  was  in  the  kitchen  ladling  pabulum  into 
the  gurgling  baby.  Hair  stringed  down  over  Bella's 
forehead  and  temples;  there  was  sweat  on  her  gaunt 
features.  Marilyn  Taylor  would  never  look  like  that, 
he  thought;  no,  not  even  in  this  apartment. 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "It's  you."  She  raised  a damp 
forehead,  and  reluctantly  he  brushed  his  lips  across 
it.  "You're  late,"  she  said.  You  always  say  that, 
Henry  thought,  even  when  I'm  early. 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  said.  "Are  we  eating  soon?" 

"I  have  to  finish  feeding  Lana,"  Bella  said. 
"Then  I'll  start  supper." 

"Oh,  you  haven't  started  yet." 

"No,  I haven't  started  yet!  What  do  you  think 
I've  been  doing  all  day~loafing?  Why,  I've  been—" 

Henry  stood  there  patiently  while  she  unrav- 
eled a spool  of  various  complaints.  "Yes,  d — " he 
interposed  once,  but  she  wasn't  finished.  "Yes,  dear," 
he  repeated,  when  she  had  stated  her  case. 

He  went  into  the  living  room  and  opened  a 
window  to  let  the  smell  out.  He  kicked  a wagon 
aside,  threw  Willie's  basketball  into  the  dining  room, 
and  picked  up  jigsaw  pieces  which  were  strewn  all 
over  the  rug. 

At  length,  with  a sigh,  he  lowered  himself 
onto  the  couch  and  sat  there  a few  moments,  breath- 
ing in  inurement  to  his  surroundings.  Then  he  lay  on 
his  back  and  pressed  his  eyes  shut.  The  room  drifted 
away.  He  plied  his  secret. 

In  the  beginning  it  had  only  been  pretense, 
the  release"  of  imagining.  But  that  was  a thousand 
days  ago.  Now  he  believed  it. 

When  he  closed  his  eyes  he  was  in  Marilyn 
Taylor's  bedroom. 

"I'm  on  her  bed,"  he  whispered  in  his  mind. 
"I  can  hear  the  drapes  whispering  as  warm  Califor- 
nia breezes  float  through  the  tall  french  windows 
which  open  on  the  terrace  which  overlooks  the  free- 
form swimming  pool  which  has  gorgeous  starlets  sit- 
ting around  it,  flexing  their  golden  bodies." 

Henry  Shrivel  sighed.  H.e  had  it  down  pat 
now.  After  a thousand  nights — minus  one— of  men- 


56  Twilight  Zone 


tal  positioning  he  was  certain  of  it.  Only  one  item 
remained.  He  had  to  kiss  Marilyn  Taylor.  That  was 
the  cachet.  Just  kiss  her. 

And  then  . . . 

Yes.  He  could  actually  feel  the  room  around 
him  now.  He  knew  every  detail  of  it,  he'd  seen  it 
from  so  many  angles  in  the  movie  magazines — the 
magazines  he'd  scoffed  at  when  Bella  stacked  them 
around  the  apartment,  but  which  he  pored  over, 
devoured,  all  the  while  pretending  that  he  was  look- 
ing down  his  nose  at  them. 

He  knew  Marilyn  Taylor's  house  as  well  as  he 
knew  his  own  apartment.  The  shelves  of  book-club 
selections  in  the  paneled  library,  the  parabolic  couch 
sprawling  in  front  of  the  vast  fieldstone  fireplace  in 
the  living  room,  the  hi-fidelity  equipment,  the 
spongy  rugs,  the  chairs  and  tables,  the  lamps.  The 
sparkling  chrome  and  copper  kitchen  where  Marilyn 
posed  in  lacey  aprons  making  biscuits.  "Marilyn  is 
quite  the  cook.”  Fanland  Magazine  had  said  it. 

Every  night  for  a thousand  nights  less  one  he 
had  projected  himself  into  that  house,  walked 
around  it,  lay  on  her  bed,  waiting  for  her. 

"I  am  on  Marilyn's  bed,"  he  whispered  again. 
"I've  just  had  a hard  set  of  tennis  with  her.  I've 
already  taken  my  shower  and  I'm  lying  here  without 
my  clothes  on.  In  the  bathroom  I can  hear  the  water 
spattering  over  her  body.  I can  hear  her  squealing  in 
delight  as  the  streams  of  bubbles  snake  over  her 
bronzed  flesh." 

Henry  shriveled  on  the  couch.  It  was  there! 
He  could  sense  it,  feel  it,  hear  it. 

And  why  not?  Time  and  space — what  were 
they  really?  Elastic  media  subject  to  personal  expan- 
sion and  contraction.  If  a man  concentrated  long 
enough  anything  was  possible. 

"Soon  the  shciwer  will  be  turned  off.  She  will 
toss  a thick  terrycloth  robe  over  her  wet  body.  Like 
the  one  she  wore  in  Corpse  on  the  Beach.  She  will 
come  gliding  out  of  the  bathroom  and  smile  at  me,  a 
sensuous  smile.  'Why,  Henry,  honey,'  she'll  coo. 
She'll  come  to  the  bed.  She'll  sit  beside  me." 

The  scene  gained  more  reality  with  every  sec- 
ond. Tonight  he  knew  he  would  actually  feel  the  bed 
yielding  to  her  lissome  weight,  feel  her  fingers 
caressing  his  cheek.  "You're  such  a handsome 
rogue,"  she'd  say,  and  he'd  really  hear  her  say  it. 
Really. 

He'd  keep  his  eyes  shut,  of  course.  She'd  beg 
for  a kiss  as  she  had  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 


times  before.  Only  this  time — this  thousandth  night 
— he'd  wait  until  his  brain  powers  were  irresistible.' 
Then  he'd  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  He'd  pull 
her  down.  He'd  feel  the  swell  of  that  fantastic  bust 
against  him.  Then  he'd  kiss  her,  and  he'd  actually 
feel  those  satiny  lips  yielding  to  his. 

"And  then  I'll  open  my  eyes.  And  I won't  be 
in  the  apartment  anymore.  I'll  be  in  Hollywood  with 
her,  holding  her.  Really!  The  escape  will  be  made. 
I'll  be  away  from  everything,  with  Marilyn  Taylor  in 
my  arms.  Sighing  in  ecstasy  in  my  male  embrace. 
And  then — " 

"Henry!  Eat!" 

The  bubble  burst.  Henry  Shrivel  was  catapulted 
back  into  his  living  room.  He  gritted  his  teeth  and 
pounded  his  fists  into  the  cushions.  Dust  scaled  up  into 
the  air. 

"Damn,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  "Oh  . . . 
double  damn." 

He  sat  up.  He  picked  up  a movie  magazine  from 
the  table  next  to  the  couch  and  flipped  it  open  to  a 
feature  story  about  Her.  She  beamed  at  him  over  the 
handle  of  a vacuum  cleaner.  "Marilyn  is  quite  the 
housekeeper,”  said  the  caption.  Henry  Shrivel  relaxed; 
he  smiled.  No  need  to  fret.  Tonight  the  break  would  be 
made.  Tonight.  Oh,  blessed  tonight. 

t supper  he  was  almost  charitable. 

He  patted  Willie  on  the  head  and  inquired 
about  the  doings  at  P.S.  106.  He  kissed  the 
baby's  cheek  with  infinite  tenderness.  He  clucked  sym- 
pathetically  at  Bella's  tirade  about  her  feet,  her  legs, 
her  back,  her  eyes,  her  teeth,  her  head,  and  anything 
else  she  felt  Inclined  to  complain  about.  All  in  all,  he 
acted  very  much  like  the  soldier  on  the  eve  of  departure 
for  the  wars— gallant  and  definitely  underplaying  it.  It 
was  unfortunate  that  no  one  noticed  it  but  him. 

When  the  meal  had  ended,  Henry  compli- 
mented Bella  on  the  excellence  of  the  cuisine.  This 
made  her  narrow  her  eyes  into  suspicious  slits. 

"You  feel  all  right?"  she  asked. 

"I  feel  wonderful,"  said  Henry  Shrivel. 

She  peered  at  him.  A mild  sense  of  alarm  burst 
in  his  chest.  Then  he  relaxed.  Bella  couldn't  possibly 
suspect.  It  was  all  in  the  mind,  where  she  couldn't  reach 
him. 

She  stopped  the  visual  inquisition  after  a while. 
But  all  night  she  glanced  at  him  occasionally  while  they 
sat  in  the  living  room  watching  half-hour  murder 
mysteries  and  reading  movie  magazines. 

Henry  deliberately  avoided  thinking  about 
Marilyn  Taylor  all  evening.  He  wanted  to  store  up  the 
longing.  He  just  sat  in  his  easy  chair  staring  a.t  the  tele- 
vision set  without  seeing  anything,  thinking  about 
what  the  neighbors  would  say  when  he  was  gone. 

"Disappeared!  Yes!  That's  what  I said!  Just  like 
that!  Went  to  bed  and  the  next  morning  he  was  gone, 
pajamas  and  all!  Not  a sign  of  hiin!  Yes!  Swallowed  up!. 
No  one  knows  what  to  make  of  it!" 


.f 

* 


Twilight  Zone  57 


^hmlfer  ^uss 


Heniy  Shrivel  smiled  a secret  smile, 
edtime. 

The  moment  drew  nigh.  Despite  rigid  control, 
Henry  found  his  heart  beating  rapidly,  his 
breaths  coming  fast.  While  he  brushed  his  teeth  he 
noticed  how  his  hands  shook.  Nothing  to  be  nervous 
about,  he  told  himself.  This  is  what  you've  been 
working  toward.  Tonight  you  reap  your  harvest. 
You're  going  to  make  it,  boy,  you're  going  to  make 
it! 

His  hands  still  shook. 

When  he  went  into  the  bedroom,  Bella  was 
just  getting  into  bed,  the  faded  blue  nightgown  hang- 
ing from  her  lean  body.  Henry  Shrivel's  lips  trem- 
bled, his  legs  shook.  He  sat  down  quickly  on  the 
bed. 

"Set  the  clock,"  said  Bella. 

"Huh?  Oh.  Yes,  dear.  I will."  His  voice  was 
drawn  and  shaky. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Bella  asked. 

"Noth-ulp."  He  swallowed.  "Nothing.  Some- 
thing in  my  throat,  that's  all.'^ 

"Oh.  Well,  goodnight." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  His  body  shook. 
He  fell  back  on  the  pillow  with  a thump.  Am  I do- 
ing right?  he  wondered.  Is  it  right  I should  leave  her 
and  the  children  like  this?  Will  my  small  insurance 
be  enough? 

His  face  tightened.  By  George,  he  hadn't  gone 
through  all  this  mental  strain  to  back  down  now. 
Not  after  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  days  and 
nights  of  aching  concentration.  It  was  only  fair  he 
should  be  rewarded  for  all  the  work. 

If  worse  came  to  worst,  he  conceded,  he 
could  always  get  a train  back  from  Hollywood.  But 
he  was  sure  Marilyn  would  get  him  a movie  contract 
playing  character  parts,  and  he  could  send  anony- 
mous checks  to  Bella.  Sure! 

He  smiled  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  tensed  his 
body,  willed  it  over  the  miles.  Almost  instantly,  he 
was  there.  He  felt  Marilyn's  bedroom  around  him; 
no  point  in  walking  through  the  whole  damned 
house  tonight.  He  was  in  her  bed.  He  heard  the 
drapes  whispering.  Outside,  the  starlets  laughed  by 
the  pool.  It  was  still  late  afternoon  out  there.  In  the 
bathroom  shower,  he  heard  Marilyn  squealing. 

"Come  out  of  the  shower,"  he  said. 

"Wha'?"  Bella  asked,  thickly. 

Henry's  eyes  jerked  open,  his  heart  pounding. 
He  caught  his  breath  and  lay  there  until  he  heard 
Bella  snoring.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  fled  back 
to  Marilyn's  bedroom.  A great  effort  forced  the  sur- 
roundings into  his  mind's  eye. 

"Come  out  of  the  shower,"  he  said  again,  this 
time  in  his  mind. 

He  listened.  Breath  caught  once  more.  There 
was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  breeze  through  the 
windows,  the  distant  laughter  of  the  starlets. 


There! 

A door  opened.  He  heard  bare  feet  on  the 
rug.  It  was  clear,  so  clear. 

"Why,  Henry,  honey." 

He  heard  it!  Heard  it!  His  heart  hammered 
against  the  wall  of  his  chest.  He  gritted  his  teeth,  but 
they  kept  chattering.  The  footstej)s  moved  across  the 
rug.  His  hands  twitched  at  hisi  sides.  He  almost 
screamed  as  the  bed  sank  at  his  side.  She  was  sitting 
by  him!  His  shoes  shook;  his  entire  frame  was  cov- 
ered by  waves  of  heat. 

A hand  caressed  his  cheek.  A real  hand,  a 
warm,  sensually  stroking  hand.  Henry  Shrivel  shook 
with  a palsy. 

"You're  such  a handsome  rogue." 

Her  low,  inviting  voice  filled  his  brain  with 
delirium.  She  was  there.  He  felt  her  hand,  heard  her 
voice,  smelled  the  perfume  of  fier  body,  her  hair. 
Every  sense  proclaimed  her  prescince. 

"Kiss  me,  Henry  honey,"  slie  said  in  a begging 
whisper. 

Now.  It  was  the  test,  the  crucial  moment  of 
moments.  If  he  was  strong  now  he  could  have  her 
always.  Marilyn  Taylor — his.  He  drew  every  cell  of 
his  body  into  a tight,  resourceful  mass.  He  fired  will- 
power through  his  throbbing  veins. 

"Kiss  me,"  Marilyn  begged. 

Slowly,  carefully,  he  raised  his  hands. 

They  closed  over  her  shoulders,  tightened.  He 
began  to  pull  her  down  slowly,  v\'ith  the  utmost  cau- 
tion. Once  she  almost  vaporized.  He  drove  a 
stronger  jolt  of  volition  through  his  system.  She 
returned.  She  was  there,  fully  there. 

Now  he  felt  her  gelatinous  breasts  against  his 
chest.  The  perfume  of  her  clouding  breath  intox- 
icated him.  His  body  shivered  uncontrollably  as  her 
warm  lips  closed  over  his,  the  mass  of  her  silky  hair 
cascaded  over  his  cheeks.  His  anns  slid  around  her. 
Her  robe  fell  open,  her  body  pi-essed  against  him. 
Abandon  raged  in  Henry  Shriv(?rs  blood.  He  had 
succeeded! 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Slight  surprise  made  his 
brow  contract.  It  wasn't  afternoon,  it  was  pitch 
black  night.  Well,  no  matter.  She  was  still  in  his 
arms;  he  felt  her  there.  They  writhed  and  groaned  in 
each  other's  embrace. 

"What's  going  on?" 

Light  flooded  suddenly  into  Henry  Shrivel's 
face.  He  jolted  to  a sitting  position,  eyes  wide  with 
nerve-shattered  shock.  His  open-mouthed  stare  flashed 
from  Marilyn  Taylor's  startled  expression  to  his 
other  side— to  Bella's  gaping  features,  her  look  of 
absolute  astonishment. 

"Henry  Shrivel!"  she  gasped.  "What's  going 
on  here!” 

"Yeah!"  said  Marilyn,  "What  the  hell  is?" 

Henry  sank  back,  goggling.  The  last  thing  he 
saw,  before  his  eyes  closed  in  a dead  faint,  was  the 
ceiling  of  his  own  bedroom.  40 


58  Twilight  Zone 


hey  were  coming. 

I woke  up  knowing  that,  just  as  I knew 
they  wouldn't  take  me.  There  are  many 
things  in  my  life  I am  ashamed  of.  They  might  take 
Laura,  though.  She's  the  one  truly  good  person  I 
know.  I nudged  her  awake. 

"I  had  the  strangest  dream,"  she  said,  sleepily 
brushing  the  hair  from  her  face. 

"I  know,"  I said.  "I  had  it  too." 

She  looked  at  me  with  that  half-awake  way 
that  she  has.  I could  tell  she  understood. 

"They  won't  take  me  either,"  she  said.  There 
was  sadness  in  her  voice. 

"They  might.  You've  never  hurt  anyone  in 
your  life.  You're  a kind  and  good  person." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  not  good  enough," 
she  said.  "Not  for  them." 

It  was  true,  and  we  both  knew  it  in  our 
hearts.  They  wanted  perfection,  nothing  less. 

Laura  shivered,  and  I held  her  close.  The 
bedroom  was  dark,  and  we  shared  a secret  the 
whole  world  knew.  I listened  to  the  clock  tick.  There 
wasn't  much  to  say.  We  stayed  that  way  all 
morning,  and  I didn't  go  to  work. 

Everything  stopped  that  day.  No  wars,  no 
work,  no  play:  it  wasn't  a day  for  that.  Men  and 
women  around  the  world  looked  to  the  stars  and 
into  their  hearts.  They  saw  the  darkness,  the  short- 
comings. Each  in  his  or  her  own  way  grieved  for 
what  man  had  become.  It  had  come  to  this — all  the 
promise,  all  the  hopes.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait.  They  were  coming. 

The  dream  had  a billion  voices,  and  it 
touched  us  all.  The  powerful  and  the  poor  got  the 
same  message.  When  night  had  passed  we  all  under- 
stood. Earth  would  have  everything,  or  Earth  would 
have  oblivion.  We  would  share  the  universe  in  peace 
and  love  with  a thousand  alien  races,  or  we  would 
be  destroyed  in  an  instant  like  an  insect  or  some 


dread  disease.  It  was  their  decision  to  make,  and, 
before  they  chose,  they  wanted  to  examine  a sample 
from  our  population. 

They  wanted  the  best. 

It  was  fair,  no  one  could  dispute  that.  They 
weren't  interested  in  the  ones  who  held  power, 
or  the  wisest,  or  the  richest  people  in  the  world. 
They  wanted  the  best  that  Earth  had  to  offer. 
Nothing  less  would  do.  In  the  night  that  they 
touched  our  minds,  they  had  also  made  their 
decision.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  them 
to  come  and  to  see  whom  they  had  chosen. 

It  wouldn't  be  the  smoothest  talker  who 
would  speak  for  Earth.  The  wisest  men  wouldn't 
plead  our  case  before  the  collective  minds  of  a 
thousand  planets.  They  weren't  interested  in  words 
or  great  deeds.  What  they  wanted  was  kindness, 
compassion.  I wondered  where  they'd  find  it. 

They  were  giving  us  the  best  chance  that  Earth 
could  have.  There  would  be  no  deceit,  no  lies,  no 
misunderstandings.  They  would  take  two — they  had 
chosen  two — and  these  two  would  speak  for  Earth. 
There  would  be  no  others;  there  would  be  no  second 
chance.  We  waited  and  wondered. 

Everything  stood  still.  Even  the  pulpits  were 
quiet.  What  we  had  seen  that  night  had  made  us 
look  deep  into  our  souls,  and  we  all  fell  short.  We 
looked  at  what  we  could  have  been  and  measured  it 
against  what  we  had  become.  It  was  a dark  pain, 
and  we  all  felt  it. 

Then  they  came. 

They  came  in  a silver  ship  and  said  nothing; 
there  was  nothing  to  say;  they  had  said  it  all  that 
night.  Silently  they  went  to  those  they  had  chosen, 
and  then  they  left. 

They  took  to  the  stars  two  dolphins,  a mated 

pair. 

We  are  waiting  for  their  decision.® 

.f 


Twilight  Zone  59 


Illustration  by  David  G.  Klein 


by  Oliver  Lowenbruck 

THERE  WAS  A HORROR  SHOW  AT  THE  OMICRON  CINEMA- 
EVEN  WHEN  NOTHING  WAS  PLAYING. 


Jonathan  Daniel  Stoner  recognized  the  dude 
inside  the  Hollywood  Magic  Shoppe,  the 
fellow  poring  over  the  display  plaque  of  ar- 
tificial eyeballs.  He  was  from  the  Omicron  Cinema; 
one  of  the  employees.  Always  having  five  minutes  to 
squander.  Jack  (as  Jonathan  had  been  dubbed  in 
Nam  by  the  few  comrades  with  enough  intellectual 
candlepower  to  add  his  first  and  middle  names  up  to 
the  sum  of  a tepid  joke:  hey  there's  another  guy 
here  named  Richard  Whiskey  but  we  call  him  Dick 
Liquor  ycck  yock  yock)  pulled  himself  in.  He  saw 
that  the  fake  eyeballs  were  pretty  damned  authentic. 
Nested  in  felt,  they  were  glossed  with  some  special 
shellac  that  made  them  gleam  like  real,  living,  wet 
eyes.  Artificial  substitutes,  he  thought,  and  his  miss- 
ing right  leg  sent  a wholly  imaginary  local  wince  up 
to  his  brain. 

"Say  hey,"  he  said. 

The  dude  from  the  Omicron  looked  up.  As 
his  face  was  hit  by  the  combination  of  the  sputtering 
fluorescents  above  and  the  dirty  grey  daylight  sneak- 
ing in  off  Hollywood  Boulevard,  Jack  thought 
maybe  the  guy  had  mononucleosis  or  something; 
superficially  he  looked  like  mere  hippie  fallout,  a 
decade  and  a half  out  of  step  with  the  real  world, 
but  close  up  Jack  saw  that  his  face  was  the  color  of 


a kitchen  sink  stained  by  coffee  grounds.  Above  the 
face  was  hair  skewed  in  a dozen  directions,  matted, 
unwashed;  below,  a physique  withered  by  hard 
weather  or  drugs  or  both.  His  eyes  were  sunken  and 
glazed  with  the  slightly  stoned  expression  Jack  had 
learned  from  the  perimeter  snipers  at  Nest 
Kilo — burned-out  Qui  Nohn  alumni  who  just  didn't 
give  a shit  anymore.  And  the  hippie  image  was  jelled 
by  the  overpowering  miasma  (no,  stink)  of  patchouli 
oil  wafting  from  every  pore  toward  Jack  like 
mustard  gas.  God,  he  hated  the  stuff. 

The  dude  had  not  quite  connected  yet,  and 
appeared  to  be  waiting  for  more  input. 

"I  come  into  the  Omicron  all  the  time,"  Jack 
prompted.  "Last  week  1 caught  Dial  M for  Murder 
and  House  of  Wax.  The  two-wa>'  3-D  glasses  were  a 
neat  idea."  Some  management  genius  had  stamped 
out  dual  lenses  that  were  red-green  for  the  black- 
and-white-feature,  and  flipped  to  polarized  lenses  for 
color.  The  two-dollar  show  had  been  packed. 

It  seemed  to  take  entire  geologic  ages  for  the 
dude  to  react.  "Oh  yeah,"  he  said  in  an  arid,  rasping 
voice.  "I  seen  you  lotsa  times.  1 remember  your 
walking  stick.  Yeah."  He  turned  back  to  his  tray  of 
eyeballs. 

Jack  shifted  his  weight  from  his  government- 


60  Twilight  Zone 


issue  cane,  leaning  closer  to  regain  the  dude's  atten- 
tion despite  the  eye-\vatering,  minty  stench.  "What's 
next?" 

Again  the  slow  shift,  as  though  the  dude  was 
crippled  in  a way  Jack  could  not  see.  Always  say 
handicapped,  not  crippled,  Compton,  the  CO,  had 
advised  with  shit-eating  sincerity  before  his  dis- 
charge. At  least  you've  fought  your  last  battle, 
soldier.  Compton  had  always  had  a supreme  rectal- 
cranial  inversion. 

Crippled.  The  dude  arm-wrestled  his  own 
memory  and  won.  "Uhh — Bloody  Mama  and  Bonnie 
and  Clyde.  That's  it  for  Crime  Week.  For  the  week- 
end we  got  Black  Moon.  And  ...  uh  ..."  He  plucked 
a wine-bottle-green  eyeball  from  the  tray  and  in- 
spected it  through  a nonexistent  loupe,  turning  it  like 
a jewel.  "Some  other  Louis  Malle  film.  My  Dinner 
with  Andre,  maybe."  His  voice  was  strep-throat  dry, 
and  sounded  like  a had  parody  of  the  Man  with  No 
Name. 

"Or  Atlantic  City?" 

"One  or  the  other.  See  ya  there,  my  man." 
He  extended  his  free  hand  and  Jack  found  himself  re- 
ceiving his  first  power-to-the-people  handshake  in 
ten  years.  The  dude's  yogurt  pallor  was  easy  to 
dismiss  as  the  cost  of  toiling  in  the  eternal  darkness 
of  a theater,  but  the  papery  texture  of  his  flesh  made 
Jack  think  of  shaking  hands  with  a mummy.  The 
brittle  skin  seemed  to  crackle  in  his  grasp,  the  bones 
beneath  rearranging  themselves  arthritically  like 
dried  voodoo  talismans.  Up,  down,  once,  twice, 
zomboid  and  mechanical.  Jack  remembered  the  rack 
of  artificial  steel  and  vinyl  arms  stored  near  the 
shelves  from  which  the  medics  picked  a leg  to  re- 
place the  one  he'd  lost.  It  had  been  like  a tombful  of 
dismembered  mannikins,  the  limbs  and  parts  devoid 
of  viscera;  hollow,  lifeless  surrogates.  The  Omicron 
dude's  dead  grasp  v/as  what  Jack  thought  shaking 
with  one  of  those  plastic-coated  hooks  would  feel 
like. 

The  dude  unclasped,  then  produced  from  his 
pocket  a slim  card  in  a cashier' s-check  pattern  of 
waffled  green  lines,  with  GOOD  FOR  ONE  FREE 
ADMISSION  stamped  on  front.  "Yours,"  he  said.  "Got 
to  keep  our  regulars  satisfied." 

"Hey,  thanks."  Abruptly  Jack  felt  like  a heel 
for  mentally  bumming  the  dude. 

"See  you  there."  He  sought  the  mate  for  the 
single  glass  eye  he  balanced  in  his  palm,  like  pairing 
dearies  for  luck  in  marbles. 

Jack  executed  his  stiff,  clockwork  180-degree 
turn  and  left  the  store,  the  thump-click  of  his  work- 
boot  and  cane  in  concert  barely  audible.  He  prac- 
ticed to  make  it  unobtrusive;  he  hated  it  when  newly 
introduced  people  gawked  at  his  right  leg  before 
looking  at  his  face.  He  thought  he  could  sympathize 
wfth  the  way  women  felt  about  their  breasts. 

On  the  Boulevard,  somebody  had  pried  out 
the  bronze  disc  of  ELhonda  Fleming's  sidewalk  star. 


stolen  it,  leaving  a crater.  A musclebound  black  su- 
perstar, towering  above  the  pedestrians  on  a hyper- 
thyroidal  pair  of  roller  skates  with  Day-Glo  orange 
wheels,  swerved  to  miss  the  crater  and  nearly  center- 
punched  Jack.  He  and  the  cacophony  of  his  gigantic 
ghetto-blaster  blended  into  the  Friday  swarm  of 
walkers  before  anyone  could  swear.  He'd  been  wear- 
ing an  Army  fatigue  shirt  with  the  sleeves  ripped  off. 

Jack  steadied  himself  against  the  display  win- 
dow of  the  Hollywood  Magic  Shoppe  and  allowed 
himself  ten  seconds  of  hemlock-pure  racism.  It 
primed  him,  erasing  the  good  feeling  of  copping  a 
free  pass  to  the  Omicron,  and  as  he  walked  through 
the  grimy,  humid  smog  and  the  abrasive  tide  of 
Boulevard  flotsam,  he  escalated  his  irritation  into 
unfocused,  hair-trigger  anger.  Everyone  around  him 
on  the  street  was  loping  along,  trying  to  look  badder 
than  everyone  else. 

Jack's  cane  attracted  no  notice  on  the  Boule- 
vard. He  was  a mundane  diversion  in  the  midst  of 
the  jarhead  Marines  on  leave,  the  slutty  preteen 
heartbreakers  leaning  on  the  bus  stop  posts,  the  me- 
andering gaggles  of  Japanese  tourists,  the  smug  pair- 
ings of  smartly  leathered  punks  and  overconfident 


.a 

- % 


Twilight  Zone  61 


faggots,  the  Hollywood  vets  witlv  their  straight- 
ahead stares  (the  better  to  avoid  the  pushy  Scientol- 
ogists just  this  side  of  Las  Palmas),  the  garbage- 
pickers  and  shopping-bag  loonies.  The  Walk  of  the 
Stars  seemed  perpetually  encrusted  with  a gummy 
vomit  of  spilled  drinks  and  litter,  like  the  sticky 
floor  of  a porno  theater.  Along  the  maze  of  blaring 
rock  noise  and  Iranian  jewelry  shops,  step-in  eateries 
displayed  steaming,  greasy  triangles  of  pizza,  or  the 
oily  components  of  colorless  hero  sandwiches,  or 
peculiar  platefuls  of  what  looked  like  Korean  food, 
varnished  for  presentation,  reminding  him  of  those 
eyes — preserved,  fakely  realistic  surrogates.  The 
lavender  spire  of  Frederick's  pierced  the  waistline  of 
the  Boulevard  somewhere  behind  him,  a centerpiece 
to  the  whole  tacky,  vulgar  carnival. 

You've  fought  your  last  battle,  crip. 

The  words  fried  into  Jack's  brain,  spoken  too 
many  times  in  too  many  subtle  ways.  The  sentiment 
ate  into  his  calm  like  fluoric  acid  into  the  fuse  of  a 
beer-bottle  bomb.  This  place  could  really  drag  you 
down. 

He  decided  the  Omicron  pass  was  not  snotty 
charity,  and  then  forgot  about  it,  feeling  a little 
better. 

His  grimace  into  the  mirror  told  him  he 
should  shave  more  often,  pay  more  atten- 
tion to  his  hair.  But  what  the  hell — he 
wouldn't  care  so  much  half  an  hour  from  now. 

The  prostitute  pulled  her  sweater  over  her 
head.  Her  corner  was  by  the  House  of  Pancakes  on 
Sunset  Boulevard,  and  Jack  always  thought  there 
was  a terrific  joke  in  that  somewhere.  The  first  thing 
she  looked  at  while  she  stripped  was  the  fleshtone 
plastic  and  metal  ornamentation  of  his  right  leg. 

Traveling  light.  M-16  on  rapid-fire,  clips  in 
his  shirt,  rifle  grenades  taped  across  his  thighs.  Vic- 
tor Patrol's  point  man  was  fifty  yards  back,  saunter- 
ing down  the  dead  center  of  the  jungle  trail  because 
he  knew  the  anti-personnel  mines  were  salted  slyly 
into  the  border  of  the  path  where  careful  soldiers 
might  tread.  They  all  knew.  Across  from  him,  his 
counterpart.  Teller,  eased  ahead  to  help  flush  out 
snipers  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  path.  He  and 
Teller  were  Victor  Patrol's  big  mavericks.  Teller 
collected  VC  ears  and  sometimes  their  balls.  The 
crumping  sound  of  60-millimeter  mortar  fire  was 
starting  to  deafen  them.  Time  to  be  careful. 

She  crushed  out  an  unfiltered  Lucky  Strike 
and  said,  "They  almost  took  a packet  of  your  shot, 
lover."  He  saw  the  wings  of  flab  curving  over  her 
kidneys.  Her  ass  seemed  a yard  wide. 

"No,  they  didn't,"  he  said,  rehearsed.  "And 
yes,  it  all  still  works."  He  waited  naked  on  the  bed. 
Exposed. 

"Talkers  are  always  comedians,"  she  said  as 
she  descended  on  him.  The  roots  of  her  hennaed 
blond  hair  were  brown. 


Ears  pricking.  Seeing  that  stupid  bastard 
Teller  and  realizing  and  forgetting  his  craving  for  a 
smoke  and  using  up  three  more  seconds  ripping  a 
grenade  loose  and  locking  it  into  the  muzzle  of  the 
M-16.  No  time.  Wanting  to  scream  they're  right 
above  you  stupid  asshole!  No  time — stock  to  shoul- 
der, finger  to  trigger.  The  weapon  kicks  and  the  tree 
thirty  yards  over  mushrooms  into  an  orange  blos- 
som of  fire  and  screaming  Cong.  Teller's  mouth 
drops  like  a stag  party  patsy's  in  surprise  and  he 
sprays  the  tree  above  uselessly  with  slugs.  The  whole 
goddam  jungle  comes  alive  with  the  nasty,  spattering 
racket  of  weapons  fire  like  a crazy  typewriter  noise 
or  water  dripped  into  a pan  of  hot  bacon  grease. 
Not  like  movie  gunfire.  The  flaming  tree  lights  up 
the  entire  perimeter  and  he  is  exposed.  Has  to  buy 
five  seconds,  has  to  retreat  to  cover  while  Victor 
charges  to  catch  up.  Backing  gingerly  through  fronds 
onto  the  trail.  Feeling  his  foot  fall  short.  He  makes 
one  step  blind  because  he's  watching  Teller's  head 
leave  his  body.  It  spins. 

There  was  flat,  sour  bile  in  his  throat.  The 
whore  had  too  much  mileage  on  her  and  was  unap- 
petizing with  her  duds  off.  He  ftJt  unaroused  and  ill. 
With  a fatalistic  devotion  to  duty  she  worked  to  ex- 
cite him  reflexively,  to  make  his  own  body  betray 
him.  It  became  boring,  repetitious,  like  a grindhouse 
stroke  flick.  He  felt  cold  lying  there,  watching  thin 
smoke  from  the  ashtray  unreel  toward  the  ceiling. 

Nothing  happens  until  he  lifts  his  foot,  then 
the  mine  POPS  beneath  him,  smacking  air  concus- 
sively  through  his  head.  He  doesn't  feel  the  rifle  gre- 
nade taped  to  his  thigh  explode.  No  details;  just  a 
stab  of  heat  and  bright  light.  The  dispensary  lights 
hurt  his  eyes  more  when  he  awakes,  four  days  later, 
thinking  Victor  Patrol  did  his  job  for  him. 

She  pushed  off  him  immediately,  and  left  her 
sweat  on  one  of  his  bathroom  towels. 

"Have  a nice  day,"  he  said  to  the  empty 
room,  watching  daylight  fade  across  his  barrack-neat 
arrangement  of  serviceable  furniture,  of  homemade 
bookshelves  and  desk.  He  clicked  on  his  tv  remote, 
a do-it-yourself  project  he'd  tinkered  together  two 
months  ago,  and  browsed  the  free  program  guide  he 
habitually  picked  up  every  Wednesday  at  the  May- 
fair  Market.  Automatically,  for  ,a  giggle,  he  thumbed 
back  to  the  Community  Classifieds. 

Beached  Manatee  Shelley  Winters  uses  the 
Grand  Canyon  for  a toilet!  Signed,  The  Scumbag. 

If  you  wanted  a good  barometer  of  Holly- 
wood's blue-collar  weirdness,  you  turned  to  the 
Community  Classifieds,  suitably  on  the  inside  back 
page  of  the  tv  schedule  and  printed  on  pulp  stock  so 
cheap  that  your  reading  fingers  were  black  by  the 
time  you  got  to  the  good  stuff.  For  those  too  illiter- 
ate to  make  the  letter  column  of  the  L.A.  Times,  too 
straight  to  ever  consider  undergrounds  (now  face- 
tiously termed  the  "alternative  press,"  Jack  thought 
with  contempt — another  sellout),  too  normal  and 


62  Twilight  Zone 


mundane  to  ever  air  their  petty  beefs  anywhere  but 
in  a playroom  or  a bar  with  a constantly  burbling 
television  set,  the  Community  Classifieds  were  a 
steam  valve  and  a cheap  thrill  all  rolled  into  a single 
weekly  page  of  lunacy.  Any  local  nonentity  could 
phone  in  a two-line  "ad"  or  editorial  comment  for 
free;  the  paper  always  had  too  many  to  run,  and  the 
week-to-week  progressions  offered  by  the  column's 
stalwarts — people  who  by  journalistic  squatter's 
rights  appeared  regularly,  trading  barbs  under  ob- 
noxious pseudonyms — were  more  entertaining  than 
any  diversions  offered  by  the  cursed  tube. 

Wanted:  Large  Negroes  who  can  slam-dunk 
while  slam-dancing  for  punkoid  Olympics  spec- 
tacular, the  Harlem  Globesuckers.  993-6793. 

Does  anybody  out  there  have  one  of  those 
rubber-chicken  enema  bags  so  popular  in  the  1950s? 
Hah,  thought  so.  Dr  Sleaze. 

House  noise  cassettes.  Keep  your  canaries 
company  while  you're  not  at  home.  $7.95  ea. 
747-4414  Eves. 

Frustrated  military,  used  athletes  and  adven- 
turous college  boys  call  Sid.  556-4348. 

Jack's  eyes  skimmed  past  two  familiar  words, 
then  backtracked  to  get  the  whole  message: 

The  Omicron  Theater  should  pay  us  money 
to  attend  such  a moth-eaten,  seat-sprung,  paint- 
peeling, roach-infested  garbage  dump!  Flake  away, 
hippie  scum!  D.W.E.,  South  La  Brea. 

When  he  rose  to  pull  a beer  from  his  tiny  re- 
frigerator, he  rechecked  his  shirt  pocket,  forgetting 
his  temporarily  unlovely  aroma.  The  free  pass  was 
still  there,  and  that  decided  him  for  the  evening.  His 
car,  a 1972  Comet  with  the  pedals  displaced  to  the 
left,  was  still  undergoing  a mileage  checkup  in  the 
shop,  but  that  did  not  put  the  Omicron  out  of  his 
range.  He  could  still  walk,  by  God. 

he  Omicron  reminded  Jack  of  a kid's  bed- 
room. To  an  adult,  a noninitiate,  it  looked 
like  a trash  heap — but  there  was  a comfort- 
ing order  inside  for  those  who  cared  to  delve  past 
the  superficial.  It  would  never  appeal  to  the  Rolls 
Royce  trade,  yet  was  not  quite  as  bad  as  the  kung-fu 
sleaze  pits  of  downtown  LA,  which  looked  as 
though  they  had  been  razed  by  Mongols.  The  Omi- 
cron was,  in  essence,  a "normal"  theater  stripped 
down  for  combat,  its  patrons  exemplars  of  the  no- 
frills class. 

Jack  assumed  the  seats  were  veterans  of  less 
fortunate  film  emporiums  long  since  demolished.  The 
heavy  draperies,  colorless  with  dust  and  age,  had 
been  hanging  around  since  1930.  The  concrete  floor 
had  been  scoured  clean  of  carpeting  ages  ago  and  re- 
mained unpainted;  two-dollar  customers  spilled  an 
awful  lot  of  crap.  During  intermissions  the  audito- 
rium lit  up  from  befiind;  two  emergency  floods  on 
battery  banks  comprised  the  sole  interior  illumina- 
tion. They  were  mounted  high  on  the  corners  of  the 


The  Walk  of  the  Stars 
seemed  perpetually 
encrusted  with  a gummy 
vomit  of  spilled  drinks 
and  litter,  like  the  sticky 
floor  of  a porno  theater. 


.a 

- ‘4 


Twilight  Zone  63 


projection  booth  like  devil  horns,  and  when  they 
clicked  on  they  threw  long  shadows  from  the  heads 
of  the  audience  all  the  way  to  the  foot  of  the  disused 
stage  in  a silhouette  mimic  of  a churchyard's  listing 
headstones.  When  those  lights  clicked  off,  you'd  bet- 
ter be  sitting.  Jack  knew,  because  here  there  were  no 
niceties  like  usher  bulbs  on  every  other  row,  or 
twinkling  blue  "landing  lights"  on  the  aisle  like  he'd 
seen  at  the  Vogue  Theatre.  Even  the  EXIT  signs  on 
each  side  of  the  screen  were  long  dysfunctional. 

And  if  the  snack  bar  had  been  a restaurant.  Jack 
would  have  found  a Grade-C  certification  ditched 
behind  the  clotted  Coke  machine.  He  suspected  that 
the  roaches  flatbacking  it,  feet-up  in  the  yellow  light 
of  the  candy  counter's  display  pane,  were  victims  of 
the  popcorn. 

The  Omicron  was  practically  Jack's  only  ac- 
knowledged watering  hole.  Like  him,  it  was  tatty  in 
patches  and  looked  broken  down,  but  he  could  pass 
its  portals  and  trade  nods  of  recognition  with  the 
dude  he  had  met  at  the  magic  shop,  and  that  was 
important.  He  was  a regular  here,  an  initiate,  and  he 
appreciated  that  the  caretakejs  of  this  dump,  un- 
quote, took  pains  where  they  counted — with  the 
programming,  and  the  quality  of  the  projection. 

Oh,  yeah — and  admission  was  still  two  Amer- 
ican bucks. 

Jack's  terrific  feeling  of  renewed  well-being 
evacuated  through  his  bowels  and  good  knee  when  he 
'plunked  down  his  change  at  the  booth  and  looked 
directly  up  into  the  varnished,  wine-bottle-green  eyes 
of  the  new  Omicron  employee. 

From  the  third  row  he  could  barely  see  the 
screen.  The  crash-and-bash  din  of  the  gang- 
ster movies  could  not  etch  his  concentration 
even  in  the  darkness  of  the  theater.  The  tarpaulined 
shapes  in  the  orchestra  pit  became  ominous;  the  au- 
ditorium, an  ambush  waiting  to  happen.  He  slouched 
in  his  seat.  His  mind  chased  logic  chains  like  a lab 
rat  on  the  scent  of  good,  putrid  Limburger  cheese. 
None  of  the  available  conclusions  eased  his  shock  by 
a mote. 

He  had  shuffled  dumbly  through  the  lobby, 
knowing  that  to  meet  the  gaze  of  the  candy-counter 
employee,  the  dude,  would  now  be  to  let  the  fear 
engulf  him  to  the  upper  lip.  Those  flat,  glassy  stares, 
unwavering,  unblinking,  like  the  appraisal  of  a puff 
adder,  came  out  of  a tray  in  the  Hollywood  Magic 
Shoppe. 

The  Cong — a supernatural  hive  intelligence, 
they  could  blank  a grunt's  brain,  make  themselves 
invisible.  Twelve-year-old  commandos  were  kicking 
President  Johnson's  butt  by  proxy.  The  fear.  It  could 
ambush  you  in  the  dark. 

(On  the  screen,  Bruce  Dern,  twelve  years 
younger,  indulges  a sadistic  little  flash  of  ultra- 
violence.  Homosexual  rape.) 

The  Omicron  staff.  Not  shellshocked  orts 


from  the  dead  age  of  the  flower  child.  Just  . . . dead, 
perhaps?  Certainly  they  seemed  to  feel  of  death,  and 
smell  of  it.  Fragile,  with  their  mushroom-pale,  coolly 
bleached  skin  and  their  fixed,  shellacked  eyes.  Stink- 
ing of  aftershaves,  colognes,  patchouli,  any  heavy 
oil  or  preservative  base  of  alcohol.  Moving,  like — 

The  baby  palm  lizard  he  found  at  the  base  of 
a tree.  The  roiling  chaos  of  maggots  revealed  when 
he  flipped  it  over.  The  legless  grubs  filling  the 
stomach  cavity;  their  mad  dining  was  what  made  the 
lizard  appear  to  be  moving.  Its  flesh  remained  as  an 
envelope,  papery  and  stiff,  a lizard-shape  to  hide  the 
fact  of  entrails  long  consumed.  Its  eyes  were  gone. 

Crazy. 

Motive,  you  dumb  gimp)!  yelled  his  mind. 
Motive!  The  why  of  a fleatrap  cinema  overseen  by 
ambulatory  dead  people,  or  whatever  the  hell  they 
were.  Certainly  not  to  derail  the  world  and  the 
American  Way. 

(Robert  De  Niro,  having  spent  an  hour  of 
screen  time  evacuating  his  skull  v\?ith  airplane  glue,  is 
discovered  amid  the  marsh  reeds,  his  spike  in  the  dirt, 
a rubber  lanyard  still  making  his  dead  bicep  bulge.) 

A snap  decision  in  the  dark.  Jack  knew  he 
had  to  investigate,  to  resolve.  It  was  what  he  had 
always  done. 

He  found  temporary  satisfaction  in  the  glow 
bouncing  back  from  the  movie  screen.  One  row  back 
and  five  seats  over,  a black  guy  swaddled  in  a stink- 
ing fatigue  jacket  snored  gutturally  and  no  one  told 
him  to  shut  up  or  get  out.  In  some  of  the  wing 
chairs,  the  ones  affording  an  uncomfortably  slanted 
view  of  the  screen,  more  wineheads  dozed  unchal- 
lenged, their  feet  on  the  chairbacks.  The  others  this 
far  forward  (guys  with  dates  generally  holed  up  fur- 
ther back  in  the  auditorium)  seemed  totally  narco- 
tized by  the  film.  The  date  duos,  the  monster-movie 
preppies,  and  the  good  citizens  would  scurry  out 
during  the  end  credits,  while  the  snoozing  derelicts 
and  street  dregs  of  Tinseltown  vmited  to  be  ushered 
out  under  duress.  For  a couple  of  bucks  over  the  flat 
rate  for  Ripple,  a spongehead  could  blow  an  entire 
day  sleeping  out  of  the  weather  and  sucking  up  racy 
moving  pictures.  Where  did  one  find  zombie  fodder? 
Just  haunting  the  Hollywood  streets  like  grey 
wraiths,  filthy  blankets  rolled  under  one  arm,  with 
hollow  eyes  and  vacant  stares,  hanging  out  long 
after  the  sideshow  freaks  and  hookers  and  male  hus- 
tlers vacated  Hollywood  and  Sunset  and  Santa  Mon- 
ica in  the  predawn.  One  more  bag  lady,  one  more 
shopping-cart  loon  or  religious  burnout  or  sooty 
panhandler  would  never  be  missed. 

Intermission  came,  and  with  it  a few  more 
truths.  He  slouched  down  when  the  auditorium 
floods  blinked  on,  actually  recoiling  from  the  light 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  singled  out.  The  deci- 
sion to  stay  after  closing  had  already  been  made. 
During  the  second  feature  he  must  have  touched  the 
pistol  in  the  pocket  of  his  pea  coat  a hundred  times. 


64  Twilight  Zone 


to  insure  it  still  existed.  He  packed  it  around  with 
him  almost  all  the  time  now. 

If  trouble  leapt  out  of  the  trees  tonight,  it  was 
reasonable  to  allow  that  he  could  win  a physical 
contest  against  the  Omicron's  scraggly  human  cin- 
ders, even  with  a missing  leg.  Their  bones  must  be 
like  communion  wafers  now,  he  thought,'  his  hand 
seeking  the  gun  unconsciously  again. 

It  was  a luxuriously  heavy  .45  automatic. 
Marine  field-issue,  and  his  practice  had  been  to 
pocket  it  whenever  he  traveled  on  foot.  Lately  it 
lived  in  the  pocket  of  the  pea  coat  all  the  time.  The 
sucker  ate  an  eight-round  clip  and  an  extra  slug  was 
already  in  the  chamber.  It  had  frequently  proven  a 
ready  deterrent  to  muggers,  at  least  those  marginally 
human.  Provided  his  thesis  was  true,  even  artillery 
like  the  monster  .45  could  not  kill  someone  already 
dead.  . . . But  it  sure  as  hell  was  capable  of  blowing 
off  arms  and  legs  and  heads  at  medium  range,  and 
they  couldn't  chase  you  if  they  didn't  have  legs. 

Provided  he  could  retreat  efficiently  without 
one,  too. 

He  considered  his  chances  as  the  second  film, 
Bonnie  and  Clyde,  began  to  unreel. 

During  one  of  its  chaotic  shootouts  (Gene 
Hackman  was  about  to  get  iced  by  the  Feds),  Jack 
changed  seats,  edging  closer  to  the  wall  of  curtain  on 
the  left  side  of  the  auditorium.  As  long  as  he  was 
not  in  the  firing  line  between  a viewer  and  the  lumi- 
nous rectangle  of  the  screen,  he  would  never  be  no- 
ticed. He  knew  how  to  walk  in  the  dark,  even 
theater-dark,  even  lecining  on  the  damned  cane  and 
humping  his  surrogate  leg  along.  Once  on  the  fringe 
of  the  farthest  row  of  seats,  he  edged  toward  the 
nearest  dead  EXIT  light.  The  suffocatingly  musty  cur- 
tains smelled  like  some  abandoned  library,  and  his 
nose  tried  to  sneeze.  He  held. 

In  another  minute  the  early  leavers  would  be 
hurrying  out.  He  avoided  the  stair  railing  leading  to 
the  push-bar  exit,  and  angled  behind  the  screen,  and 
looked  up  to  be  confronted  by  a reversed  tight  close- 
up  of  a face  thirty  feet  high.  The  boxy,  flat-black 
speaker  apparatus,  its  horizontal  planes  steeped  in 
brown  dust,  directed  its  salvo  away  from  him  and 
out  through  the  million  tiny  perforations  in  the 
screen.  Out  toward — 

He  felt  a mad,  directional  itch  skittering  from 
his  hairline,  around  one  eye,  over  his  nose.  Stifling 
his  cry  of  reaction,  he  slapped  away  the  cockroach 
before  it  could  hide  in  his  mouth.  Yeah,  the  curtains 
were  probably  alive  with  the  goddam  things.  He 
thought  of  them  congregating  in  the  trough  of  the 
filthy  Coke  machine  after  closing,  leaving  their  egg 
cases  in  the  drains,  or  mating  in  the  cigarette  butts 
and  piss  filling  the  john's  two  urinals.  Did  roaches 
mate  or  were  they,  v/hat  did  you  call  it,  partheno- 
genetic?  Hermaphroditic?  He  hated  the  damn  things 
the  way  he  hated  breaking  spiderwebs  with  his  face, 
the  way  he  hated  the;  monster  leeches  and  vampire 


mosquitos  he'd  met  across  the  ocean.  Or  rats. 

Above  him,  the  screen  lit  up  with  an  end- 
credit  roll.  Backwards.  He  hunkered  down  and 
thought  about  rats  for  a minute. 

The  grunge  theater  in  Chicago  is  a sleaze-pit, 
cold  as  a corpse  locker,  in  the  bosom  of  the  annual 
blizzards.  Jack  and  two  fellow  renegades  from  Basic 
are  celebrating  their  first-ever  weekend  passes  by 
touring  the  Windy  City.  Their  passes  are  thirty-five 
hours  old;  now  they  are  in  attendance  at  a triple-bill 
of  skin-flicks  aimed  at  the  midnight-to-dawn  beat-off 
crowd.  The  theater  is  in  the  middle  of  a bumed-out 
DMZ  called  Division  Street.  Swindler,  grandly  pol- 
luted on  a fifth  of  George  Dickel's  finest  80-proof 
paint  remover,  re-dubs  Chicago  the  Shitty  City,  tit- 
tering at  the  rhyme.  Ford,  equally  blitzed,  elabor- 
ates by  making  Chicago  the  Puckered  Red  Asshole 
of  the  Universe.  Jack's  laugh  goes  cheesy  and  sour; 
he  pulls  his  boots  up  off  the  floor  because  he  has 
spotted  the  rats  quietly  on  the  discarded  candy  boxes 


- ’t 


Twilight  Zone  65 


and  popcorn  tubs.  In  the  middle  film'  a cowlike  nak- 
ed blonde  accidentally  sets  fire  to  her  bed  with  a 
smoldering  reefer  (the  fire  is  a special  effect  that 
must  have  planed  away  half  the  film's  $1.98  budget), 
and  she  and  her  musclebound  Latino  buggerers  flee 
the  frame  as  a line  of  jet-gas  fire  sweeps  along  the 
bottom  of  the  picture.  Jack  hears  the  squeals  from 
the  screen  and  realizes  they  are  not  part  of  the 
soundtrack.  What  must  be  dozens  of  rats  have  been 
surprised  by  the  sudden  flood  of  light  back  there, 
behind  the  screen.  Unpleasant.  The  rodent  army  re- 
treats into  the  dark,  to  mingle  with  the  audience.  He 
watches  a crushed  soft-drink  cup  manipulate  itself 
patiently  across  the  cold  stone  floor.  He  gets  up  to 
leave. 

Could  there  be  rats  in  the  Omicron?  In  Cali- 
fornia, maybe  mice.  A voice  in  Jack's  head  told  him 
he  was  obfuscating.  Rats  did  not  worry  him. 

The  house  floods  snapped  on  and  the  rest  of 
the  patrons  herded  noisily  out.  Jack  waited,  secreted 
behind  the  hanging  curtains,  weight  at  ease  on  his 
fake  leg. 

The  EXIT  door  crashed,  shut — sheet  metal  hit- 
ting a wood  jamb  and  rattling  a loose  push-bar — and 
did  not  open  again.  For  sixty  seconds  he  breathed 
shallowly,  listening.  Then  he  inched  forward  until  he 
could  see  the  auditorium  under  the  glare  of  the 
floods. 

There  were  perhaps  ten  derelicts  out  there, 
still  snoring.  Maintenance  movements  and  sounds 
echoed  toward  Jack  from  the  lobby  area,  then  some- 
body— the  new  guy,  the  one  with  the  bottle-green 
eyes — moved  down  the  aisles,  waking  the  bums  up. 
Excuse  me  excuse  me  you  have  to  leave  now.  Jack 
watched  his  progress;  the  same  speech  for  each 
sleeper.  They  grunted.  Some  got  the  speech  twice 
before  reluctantly  shuffling  out.  One  nodded  and 
resumed  sleeping — the  black  guy  in  the  fatigue  coat. 
The  Omicron  employee  moved  to  the  next  customer. 
Like  shabby,  ragtag  Conestogas  lurching  west,  they 
dragged  themselves  out,  all  except  Fatigue  Coat, 
who  had  been  sitting  behind  Jack,  and  to  whom  the 
new  employee  gradually  circled  back. 

Behind  Jack,  the  curtains  rustled,  moving  them- 
selves. Drifts  of  thin  dust  sifted  down.  It  might  have 
been  the  vacuum  effect  of  the  front  doors  closing. 

He  looked,  and  saw  the  Omicron  guy  stand- 
ing mutely  over  Fatigue  Coat,  watching  him  sleep, 
watching  with  those  fixed  eyes  whose  pupils  never 
expanded  or  contracted.  Watching  with  the  head- 
cocked  attitude  and  characterless  gaze  of  a praying 
mantis  surveying  the  struggle  of  a future  meal. 

The  other  made  his  way  toward  the  pair, 
dressed  exactly  as  Jack  had  seen  him  in  the  Holly- 
wood Magic  Shoppe.  He  had  a baseball  bat. 

Budget  security  as  well.  Jack  thought. 

The  curtains  were  still  moving,  wafting  as  if 
in  an  unfelt,  warm  breeze.  There  was  a faraway, 
crackling-paper  kind  of  noise. 


When  the  dude  swung  the  bat  against  the 
back  of  Fatigue  Coat's  neck,  it  made  a sound  like  five 
pounds  of  raw  steak  smacking  a lineoleum  floor. 
Jack  felt  a sympathetic  local  jab  in  the  area  where 
his  backbone  met  his  skull,  and  the  black  guy  did  a 
forward  roll  to  slump  out  of  sight  between  the  seats. 
They  bent  to  lift  him,  and  he  came  up  as  slack  and 
limp  as  an  abused  mattress. 

Another  roach  dashed  iri  a zigzag  across  the 
back  of  Jack's  hand.  His  reaction  came  an  instant 
too  late,  and  when  he  tried  to  brush  it  away  he  hit 
the  curtain,  and  three  of  its  buddies  fell  from  the 
folds  of  cloth  to  the  floor  and  scurried  away.  The 
crackling-paper  sound,  like  hundreds  of  tiny,  drum- 
ming fingers,  was  noticeably  louder. 

When  he  looked  back.  Fatigue  Coat  was  be- 
ing laboriously  dragged  toward  the  orchestra  pit. 
Each  Omicron  dude  had  a leg.  .A^nd  a dark,  wet,  er- 
ratic smear  was  left  in  their  wake,  shining  up  from 
the  concrete  slope  of  the  aisle.  It  was  something  the 
regular  patrons  would  never  notice  anyway. 

It  sounded  like  rain,  and  Jack  thought  of  the 
flea-pit  movie  house  in  Chicago.  His  vision  of  the 
movement  in  the  orchestra  pit  resolved  into  a roiling 
whirlpool  of  scuttling  brown  bodies.  Not  rats. 
Roaches.  Millions  of  roaches,  swarming  over  each 
other  in  the  dark  maw  of  the  pit.  Not  the  killer 
cockroaches,  the  three-inch  long  monsters  that  could 
fly — merely  the  tiniest  household  vermin,  multiplied 
a billionfold  before  his  awed  eyes.  And  around  his 
feet.  He  saw  them  move  in  quietly  scratching,  brittle 
brown  masses  across  the  floor  like  a shoe-sole-deep 
tide  of  sentient  mud.  He  thought  of  them  detouring 
up  his  plastic  leg,  antennae  probing.  The  hairs  on  his 
good  leg  prickled.  He  held.  TJie  leeches,  the  Stuka 
mosquitos,  the  goddam  kraits  had  been  far  worse, 
he  told  himself.  The  .45  automatic,  polished  to  a 
dull  sheen  by  the  pea  coat  pocket,  came  out  now, 
shaking  in  his  hand.  The  shaking  pissed  him  off. 

He  thought  of  them  living  in  the  seat  cush- 
ions, the  curtains,  the  cracks  in  the  floor,  the  moldy 
planking  and  rafters,  the  termite-hollowed  super- 
structure. More  than  enough  breeding  room,  even  if 
one  did  not  count  the  snack  bar  . . . 

The  dude  and  the  new  employee  heaved 
Fatigue  Coat  over  the  lip  of  the  orchestra  pit  into  the 
riotous,  churning  sea  of  chitinous  bugs.  He  seemed 
to  hinge  at  the  waist,  like  one  of  those  backward- 
jointed  dummies  used  for  the  big  jump  in  the 
cheapest  films.  He  did  not  look  real.  Neither  did  the 
sheer  mass  of  waiting  roaches — at  least  three  vertical 
feet  of  them,  he  saw  now,  swarming  nearly  to  the 
rusted  brass  rail  of  the  pit.  They  embraced  the  body 
hungrily.  The  last  part  of  him  to  submerge  into  the 
attack  of  brown,  bulletlike  forms  was  his  foot,  toes 
protruding  from  a demolished  sneaker  wound  with 
dirty  friction  tape.  Then  he  was  gone,  gobbled  up, 
and  quickly. 

The  hammer  of  the  quivering  .45  vyas  cocked 


66  Twilight  Zone 


now.  The  display  below  forced  Jack  to  grip  the  gun 
tightly  in  his  fist  and  cock  it  with  his  free  hand.  That 
was  when  he  fumbled  the  cane.  It  dropped  away,  miss- 
ing his  grab,  and  hit  the  edge  of  the  stage,  somer- 
saulting into  the  open,  its  rubber  street  tip  bouncing 
it  off  the  orchestra  pit  rail.  It  clattered  to  the  bare 
concrete  floor.  Loudly. 

The  EXIT  door  was  still  at  hand,  but  Jack  did 
not  try  to  stump  toward  it.  He  had  heard  it  being 
chained  shut  from  his  hiding  place. 

They  came  for  him  behind  the  Omicron 
screen,  clumping  in  cadence  up  the  exit  steps  like  a 
two-man  funeral  procession,  and  found  him  backed 
against  the  wall,  pistol  rigidly  thrust  out  before  him, 
a scepter  of  power,  a talisman  against  evil. 

"No  closer."  His  voice  did  not  quaver.  The 
gun  was  now  steady;  the  threat  was  defined.  His 
good  leg  held  him  locked  to  the  stone  wall. 

The  new  employee's  voice  croaked  in  mono- 
tone: "Excuse  me,  but  you  have  to  leave  now ..." 
The  bottle-green,  glassy  eyes  stared  at  the  dead 
space  between  Jack's  head  and  shoulder. 

Jack  could  not  trust  the  light,  but  he  was  cer- 
tain that  the  dude,  the  elder  employee,  smiled  at  him 
when  Jack  uttered  the  single  syllable:  "No."  The  grin 
was  dry  and  lifeless,  a manipulated,  puppeteered 
thing,  matching  horribly  with  the  fixed  phoniness  of 
the  eyes  and  the  miemory  of  fragile,  cured,  dead 
flesh.  He  moved  toward  Jack  purposefully,  grin 
fixed,  eyes  fixed. 

Second  warnings  were  for  bad  movies,  too. 
Jack  cut  loose  his  bonus  cartridge. 

The  boom  of  the  shot  knocked  more  dust  out 
of  the  curtains.  It  resonated  inside  the  girderwork 
and  made  the  steel  cables  securing  the  screen  vibrate. 
Jack  flinched.  What  even  an  unmodified  .45  bullet 
could  do  to  a human  skull  at  medium  close  range 
was  something  seldom  depicted  in  those  movies, 
either.  Basically,  it  made  a little  hole  going  in  and  a 
huge  hole  coming  out.  Frequently  it  could  decapitate 
the  aggressor.  That  was  how  Teller  had  bought  it. 

A perfect  black  dot  appeared  on  the  dude's 
forehead  just  over  the  right  eye.  The  hair  on  the 
back  of  his  head  flevvf  apart  violently,  followed  by  a 
cloud  of  brown,  metallic  chaff,  like  pulverized  card- 
board. It  glittered  in  the  air  and  settled.  Then 
roaches  began  to  boil  out  of  the  forehead  hole.  The 
grin  stayed.  The  dude  took  another  step  forward. 

Jack  fired  convulsively  after  that. 

The  eye  exploded  like  zircon  struck  with  a steel 
hammer.  Dead  teeth  were  blown  east  like  stubs  of 
shattered  chalk.  The  head  disintegrated  into  flaking 
quarters.  Roaches  flooded  out  from  the  neck  stump. 

Jack  swung,  dropped  sights,  and  put  a slug 
through  the  new  employee's  outstretched  hand.  No 
grimace  of  impact,  but  it  spun  him,  and  he  lost  bal- 
ance and  tumbled  headfirst  through  the  curtains  into 
the  orchestra  pit.  His  buddy,  sans  head,  was  still 
tracking  mindlessly  toward  Jack.  Jack  squeezed  off. 


Not  rats.  Roaches.  He 
saw  them  move  in 
quietly  scratching 
brown  masses  across  the 
floor  like  a tide  of 
sentient  mud. 


Twilight  Zone  67 


and  the  point-blank  blast  tore  away  everything 
below  the  dude's  left  kneecap  and  sent  it  flying 
through  the  movie  screen.  He  crumpled.  Freed  bugs 
scattered  for  cover. 

Hurdling  along,  pole-vaulting,  actually,  click- 
thump,  he  made  it  to  the  exit  door  without  falling 
on  his  face.  Roaches  were  crawling  up  his  legs  now. 
The  case-hardened  padlock  hasp  and  tempered  chain 
were  no  match  for  the  bullet  that  kicked  them  apart, 
and  Jack  shoved  the  door,  doubling  it  back  against 
the  outside  wall  with  a crash.  Outside,  the  paving 
was  slick  with  rainwater;  puddles  gleamed  back  at 
him  in  the  trapezoid  of  dim  light  surrounding  his 
elongated’  shadow.  Good.  They  hated  water.  He 
limped  out  into  the  alley. 

He  never  saw  the  new  employee,  flailing  pa- 
thetically in  a waist-high  quicksand  of  chewing  in- 
sects, struggling  to  stand.  Nor  did  he  see  the  new 
employee's  seams  burst,  to  feed  the  flood  tide  now 
cascading  over  the  fallen  walking  stick,  testing,  tast- 
ing, analyzing.  Angrily. 

The  .45  burned  in  his  fist.  The  loss  of  the 
cane  pushed  him  into  overexertion.  At  least  you've 
■ fought  your  last  battle,  soldie^.  . . . 

Some  guardian  angel  had  abandoned  a split 
haft  of  broom  stick  in  a garbage  dumpster,  and  that 
helped  get  him  home.  He  stopped  often  to  slap  at 
himself,  and  after  about  ten  minutes  he  heard  sirens. 

he  bottle  of  George  Dickel's  finest  on  the 
countertop  was  thoughtfully  notched  so  a 
potential  drinker  might  view  how  much 
stock  remained.  Of  the  eight  ounces  inside  when 
Jack  burst  into  the  apartment,  four  vanished  before 
he  even  sat  down. 

His  leg  relaxed  at  last,  and  he  might  have 
screamed.  His  breath  whooshed  out  and  he  bolted 
down  another  shot  straight  and  neat,  letting  his  gut 
warm.  Sweat  dumbed  up  his  clothing  with  damp- 
ness. He  rested  the  .45  on  the  table,  next  to  the  open 
bottle,  and  in  a few  silent  minutes  he  felt  better, 
more  relaxed.  The  gun  had  cooled. 

Bam,  he  thought.  Bam,  bam,  bam,  and  the 
dude  popped  open  and  there  they  were,  a hive  intel- 
ligence, like  the  Cong,  thriving  under  our  noses,  liv- 
ing  off  our  garbage,  our  human  garbage,  and  good 
old  Jack  Daniels  Stoner  had  found  out. 

He  took  another  pull  from  the  bottle.  A 
slower-killing  slug,  he  thought,  looking  again  at  the 
gun. 

A hair  was  stuck  to  it. 

Absently  he  moved  to  pluck  it  from  the  met- 
al. It  moved. 

His  insides  jumped.  It  was  protruding  from 
the  barrel,  brown  and  thin  and  wavering,  and  it  was 
not  a hair. 

He  thought  he  saw  a madly  scurrying  roach 
speed  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  gun.  Quickly,  he 
slapped  at  the  bare  table  surface  and  strained  to  check 


the  underside.  Nothing.  It  was  his  imagination  drop- 
ping into  overdrive,  fueled  by  the  octane  of  whiskey. 
Nothing.  The  gun  was  clean. 

But  those  little  suckers  sure  run  fast. 

He  did  last  rites  for  the  bottle  and  shuddered. 
Then,  grimly,  he  started  on  the  leftover  beer.  Soon 
he  fell  asleep  on  the  sofa  of  his  neat,  ordered, 
vermin-free  apartment. 

And  when  he  woke  he  knew  they  had  found 
him.  He  had  ferried  their  scouts  home  with  him,  and 
now  they  had  him. 

His  good  leg  ached  horridly.  He  remembered 
the  aluminum  crutch,  ugly  and  unused,  still  in  the 
foyer  closet.  Before  being  fitted  with  his  plastic  leg, 
he  had  learned  to  use  the  crutch  as  a surrogate.  He 
tensed  before  jerking  open  the  closet  door,  and 
something  tiny  and  brown  dashed  out  of  sight  be- 
hind the  jamb.  He  was  certain  he  had  seen  this  one. 
He  grabbed  the  crutch,  and  again  his  peripheral  vi- 
sion noted  quick,  dark  movement,  but  by  the  time  it 
took  to  turn  his  head  and  focus,  it  was  gone — hid- 
den, out  of  the  light. 

The  countertop!  Leaning  on  the  crutch,  he 
humped  feverishly  across  the  room.  More  nothing. 

"Damn  it!"  Frustration  and  panic  lay  in  wait. 

Th«  pistol  was  still  on  the  table,  but  not  as  he 
thought  he  had  left  it.  Now  its  barrel  was  pointed  at 
the  chair  where  he  had  sat  drinking.  He  knew  there 
were  at  least  three  or  four  slugs  still  in  the  clip,  mini- 
mum, and  never  in  his  life  had  he  gotten  bombed 
enough  to  leave  any  weapon  idly  aimed  at  himself, 
loaded  or  no. 

From  the  cabinets,  the  spaces  beneath  the 
counter  tiles,  the  interior  of  the  stove,  they  moni- 
tored him.  It  was  a reasonable  assumption.  He 
stopped  the  childish  bullshit  of  trying  to  catch  them, 
and  started  to  proceed  methodically. 

He  smacked  a spare  clip  into  the  gun  and  re- 
loaded the  exhausted  one  before  sliding  everything 
back  into  the  pea  coat.  He  pocketed  all  the  change 
he  could  scrounge.  To  leave  beccime  imperative — not 
to  return  to  the  Omicron,  oh  no,  not  unless  one 
wanted  to  spend  a few  months  posthumously  helm- 
ing the  snack  bar,  but  to  get  clear  of  the  apartment 
before  they  had  an  opportunity  to  catch  him  nap- 
ping. The  quiet  walls  unnerved  him  now,  pressed 
against  him  with  the  weight  of  a million  tiny,  impa- 
tient bodies.  Most  likely  they  were  right  above  his 
head  and  he  could  not  see  them,  like  Teller. 

On  his  way  to  the  door  he  thought  he'd  spot- 
ted one  on  the  tabletop,  maybe  the  one  from  the 
gun.  He  ignored  it.  He  would  never  be  fast  enough 
to  get  the  little  mothers.  But  he  could  be  fast 
enough,  sharp  enough,  still  to  get  out,  to  survive. 

The  night  was  still  black  and  wet.  Droplet 
patterns  from  the  a.m.  mist  accreted  on  the  metal  of 
his  crutch.  He  walked.  He  proceeded  methodically, 
with  nowhere  to  go  but  away. 

He  was  in  the  crosswalk  at  La  Brea  and  Santa 


68  Twilight  Zone 


Monica  when  the  headlights  nailed  him.  An  oilslick- 
black  Buick  Regal,  filled  with  the  resplendence  of  a 
coked-out  pimp  pilot  and  a pair  of  chromed  hook- 
ers, stopped  with  its  front  tires  over  the  white  line. 
Jack  saw  that  the  riders  were  pretty  jolly  for  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  stared  at  them  through 
the  windshield,  realizing  they  had  no  idea  of  what 
was  happening. 

An  angry  black  face  bared  teeth  through  the 
open  driver's  side  window.  "Keep  yo'  goddam  hands 
off  the  car,  mothaluckin'  bum!"  He  floored  the 
pedal.  Jack  heard  the  engine  roar  and  jumped  as  the 
Buick  ran  the  red  and  swerved  back  into  the  lane, 
ass-skidding  like  a slot  car.  The  jibes,  in  high, 
ridiculing  feminine  voices,  echoed  behind. 

He  stood  in  the  crosswalk,  arms  open.  "No!" 
They  thought  he  was  a derelict,  more  of  the  human 
garbage  washed  up  on  the  streets  of  downtown  Hol- 
lywood. Like  the  winos  in  the  Omicron,  like  Fatigue 
Coat.  "You're  wrong!"  he  shouted,  and  his  voice 
bounced  off  the  Thrifty's  and  the  Burger  King  and 
the  car  wash,  and  the  bag  lady  sleeping  on  the  bus 
stop  bench  paid  no  attention.  They  all  thought  he 
was  just  another  loon,  yelling  in  an  intersection  at 
three  in  the  morning,  and  he  felt  the  crushing  weight 
of  the  need  to  tell  everyone  the  truth. 

But  the  light  changed,  and  he  kept  on  moving 
because  that  was  what  he  was  trained  to  do.  He  was 
still  the  point  man,  the  patrol's  maverick;  his  job 
was  to  make  practical  decisions  fast  and  act  on  them 
instinctively.  As  soon  as  he  made  the  curb  he 
thought  he  spotted  a stray  roach  struggling  up  his 
pant  leg  in  the  wet  neon  glow  of  the  DONT  WALK 
sign,  and  his  fist  instantly  responded,  swooping 
down  to  smash  it.  His  plastic  leg  resounded  with  its 
characteristic,  drumlike  thunk  as  his  hand  flattened 
the  bug  into  nonexistence.  He  fancied  he  felt  a reflex 
tremor  from  leg  nerves  that  no  longer  existed,  either. 

His  body  skipped  a breath  and  he  froze.  The 
sound  his  fist  had  made  against  his  plastic  leg  was 
subtly  deeper  than  usual — the  difference  in  pitch  be- 
tween an  empty  glass  and  a filled  one. 

Jack's  mouth  dried  up  with  amazing  speed. 
His  plastic  leg  was  hollow,  like  the  leg  of  a Ken  doll. 
Lots  of  empty  space  down  there  where  he  could  not 
see.  Or  feel. 

He  tore  open  his  pea  coat  and  jerked  loose 
the  straps  that  held  the  prosthetic  limb  buckled  fast 
to  his  ruined  flesh.  From  somewhere  down  there 
another  roach  free-fell  to  land  on  its  back,  legs  wig- 
gling. Jack  pivoted  on  the  crutch  and  stomped  in 
into  the  sidewalk  cracks. 

Keeling  madly  forward,  he  grabbed  the  leg  by 
its  jointed  plastic  ankle  and  heaved  it  in  a clumsy 
cartwheel  toward  a litter  basket  next  to  the  stoplight 
pole.  He  did  not  see  it  crash-land;  he  was  watching 
another  roach  scurry  into  the  sewer  grating,  wonder- 
ing if  it  had  come  from  him. 

He  left  the  leg  there,  jutting  crookedly  out  of 


the  litter  basket,  looking  like  a vaudevillian  joke.  By 
dawn  some  bag  lady  would  scavenge  it.  Under  the 
chancy  light  of  the  mercury-vapor  lamps  he  had  no 
way  of  telling  whether  the  bugs  he  now  saw  scutter- 
ing  about  on  his  abandoned  leg  were  from  within 
the  leg  itself,  or  from  the  garbage  already  stinking  in 
the  overfilled  basket.  They  swarmed  and  capered  as 
though  cheated. 

Using  his  crutch,  rather  proficiently  he  thought, 
he  moved  purposefully  on  into  the  slick,  black  night. 
His  pantleg  fluttered  crazily  because  it  was  empty, 
and  for  that  very  reason  he  paid  it  no  mind.  iS 


Twilight  Zone  69 


TOUR  THE  ETERNAL  MOMENT! 


never  got  to  stay  in  one  place  very  long,  because  for 
fear  of  getting  lost  (an  unsettling  prospect,  for  all  the 
beauty  of  the  place)  I stayed  with  the  tour. 

The  tour  covered  a lot  of  ground  and  we  saw 
some  remarkable  tableaux,  none  of  which  I remem- 
ber. What  I remember  are  the  unremarkable  ones: 
for  example,  a man  in  a business  suit,  probably  gray 
flannel — but  then,  everything  is  gray — sitting  at  his 
breakfast  table,  holding  a newspaper  in  his  left  hand 
but  not  reading  it.  Instead  he  stares  down  into  his 
coffee  mug,  which  sits  on  the  table  and  which  his 
right  hand  lightly  embraces  as  though  to  conjure  its 
warmth,  or  some  further  secret,  from  it. 

A few  feet  away,  at  the  gray  kitchen  counter, 
a woman  In  a dressing  gown  has  just  picked  up  the 
coffee  pot,  which  by  its  shape  is  evidently  made  of 
glass,  and  it's  evident  she  will  drop  it.  Her  arms  and 
torso  are  pivoting  with  the  kind  of  methodical, 
drugged  correctness  that  always  ends  in  a breaking, 
and  her  face  has  a look  of  resigned  alarm.  I thought: 
If  not  for  the  ash,  the  pot  would  have  shattered,  she 
would  have  cried,  he  would  have  comforted  her.  Or 
he  would  have  yelled  and  she  would  have  yelled 
back,  but  either  way  he  would  have  been  late  for 
work. 

I also  remember  a very  old  man  in  a hospital 


GOD  SHED 
HIS  GRACE 

by  Evan  Eisenberg 


I ^ Xe  saw  America  today.  I assume  you  know 
I X IX  the  story:  a volcano  erupted  somewhere  in 
w w the  Northwest,  covered  the  whole  country 
with  an  infinitesimal  layer  of  ash,  and  apparently 
that  was  it.  Now  you  can  see  it  all,  the  houses,  cars, 
and  of  course  the  people,  all  perfectly  preserved 
although  gray.  All  that  gray — an  even,  deep  char- 
coal color— is  monotonous  at  first,  but  then  you 
begin  to  see  the  subtleties  of  light  and  shade,  con- 
tour and  volume.  Since  the  light  changes  as  the  day 
progresses  you  can  stay  in  one  place  for  hours  and 
not  get  bored — or  so  I would  imagine.  Actually,  I 


70  Twilight  Zone 


bed,  with  tubes  and  wires  dangling  from  most  parts 
of  him.  He  is  reclining,  propped  up,  his  face  aimed 
at  a television  screen  mounted  high  on  the  opposite 
wall.  With  a thin  taped  forearm  he  reaches  for  what 
must  be  the  rernote  control  box,  next  to  which  on 
the  night  table  is  a vase  of  gray  begonias,  withered 
— withered,  obviously,  before  the  ashes  fell,  because 
"nothing  has  changed  since  then,  not  a thing,”  as  the 
guide  was  fond  of  repeating. 

Something  else  in  a bed  I also  remember, 
maybe  because  beds  are  natural  frames,  pedestals:  a 
young  man  on  his  back,  a velvet  young  woman 
astride  him,  kneeling.  Both  face  upward,  as  though 
watching  the  blanket  of  ash  float  down  over  them, 
but  both  have  their  eyes  closed;  he  might  be  sleep- 
ing, she  might  be  praying.  When  we  were  there  a 
bright  square  of  sunlight  came  through  the  open 
window  and  picked  out  the  woman  from  the  waist 
up,  warming  the  det(!rmined  nipples  and  making  the 
coating  of  ash  glisten.  The  woman  seemed  to  be 
pushing  through  a wind  tunnel  of  light — exactly  as  I 
would  picture  someone  traveling  in  time.  This  was 
one  place  where  I would  gladly  havp  stayed  all  day, 
watching  the  light  change,  but  unfortunately,  as  I 
said,  couldn't. 

What  else?  A little  girl,  maybe  eight  years 


old,  on  the  sidewalk  playing — talk  about  unremark- 
able— with  a dog.  The  dog  is  bigger  than  the  girl,  a 
big  mutt,  mostly  shepherd  and  collie;  it  sits  on  its 
haunches  while  the  girl,  a pretty  thing  in  a sun  dress 
and  random  gray  curls,  embraces  its  neck  from 
behind.  The  thin  film  of  ash  gives  her  grimace, 
which  is  ambiguous  to  start  with,  an  extra  scrim  of 
unclarity,  and  one  wonders — is  this  blind  ex- 
uberance, or  starved  love,  or  the  glee  of  cruelty,  or  a 
smothered  wail,  or  what?  I gave  up  trying  to  read  it. 
But  the  dog's  expression  is  clear  enough.  The  muzzle 
tips  up,  the  eyes  are  closed,  the  mouth  is  set:  pa- 
tience, tormented  but  perfect.  Perfect.  And  yet  I 
found  myself  wondering  like  an  idiot  whether,  if  I 
waited  long  enough,  I might  not  see  the  dog  finally 
get  fed  up  and  wheel  around  and  snap. 

Of  course  it  can't  happen,  not  in  a thousand 
years.  Still,  I would  have  liked  to  wait  up  there  an 
hour  or  two — the  shadows  were  lengthening,  the 
light  was  becoming  rosy,  making  the  charcoal  a sort 
of  pastel — but  at  this  point  the  tour  was  leaving 
America.  (This  was  when  someone  asked  the  guide, 
how  could  a thin  layer  of  ash  stop  a whole  civiliza- 
tion dead  in  it  tracks,  ana  the  guide  said,  "Should  it 
take  more  than  that?”)  But  what  a pity!  It  all  would 
have  been  so  beautiful  at  sunset.  iS 


Twilight  Zone  71 


1 ' 


. MORE  THAN  A HAIRCUT  AWAITED  HIM  IN  , , . 

A liittle  Ti/iro-OFiair 
Barber  Sbop  on 
Pl\illi]9S  Street 

by  Donald  R.  Burleson 


72  Twilight  Zone 


It  doesn't  take  any  new  barber  of  mine  long  to 
figure  out  that,  while  I.'m  getting  a haircut,  I 
would  rather  just  sit  in  the  chair  and  drowse 
than  talk  about  sports  or  politics  or  the  weather.  I 
don't  even  read  a magazine.  It's  the  one  time  I feel 
completely  released  from  responsibility,  completely 
pampered  and  taken  care  of.  I close  my  eyes  and  let 
the  buzzing  of  the  clippers  and  the  snipping  of  the 
scissors  lull  me  away  to  the  private  caverns  of  sleep. 

Thus  it  was  that  I sat  dreaming  away  on  a 
recent  Saturday  afternoon,  barely  aware  of  the 
squawking  of  the  inevitable  talcum-powder-dusted 
radio  on  the  shelf  below  the  mirror,  or  of  the  hearty 
conversation  going  on  at  the  other  chair  about  some 
football  game,  or  of  the  occasional  rumble  of  traffic 
going  by  just  outside  the  open  door.  It  was  a little 
two-chair  shop  on  Phillips  Street,  and  I had  never 
noticed  it  before — mainly,  I guess,  because  I almost 
never  chanced  to  come  down  Phillips  Street  at  all. 
The  street  was  an  obscure  little  lane  just  one  block 
long  that  began  and  ended  with  nondescript  smoke- 
blackened  brick  frontage  punctuated  erratically  with 
graffiti,  outdated  posters,  and  hopeless-looking  "For 
Lease"  signs.  Wedged  between  more  lively  thorough- 
fares, it  was  the  sort  of  street  that  you  could  walk 
down  with  a mind  full  of  thoughts  and  scarcely  even 
notice. 

That  afternoon  I had  come  there  to  look  into 
a little  secondhand  bookshop,  listed  in  the  phone 
book,  that  1 somehow  hadn't  gotten  around  to 
visiting.  I had  found  it  readily  enough — one  of  those 
little  hole-in-the-wall  places  with  battered  bins  of 
cheap,  ragged,  volumes  lining  the  sidewalk  in  front, 
and  the  promise  of  dusty  labyrinths  of  shelves 
within.  But  I had  also  spotted  the  barber  shop  next 
door  and  had  decided  to  give  that  a try  first. 

The  barber  nearest  the  door  was  an  old  man, 
a pot-bellied  chap  with  a dark  complexion  and  great 
shock  of  white  hair  that  apparently  hadn't  known 
the  attentions  of  a member  of  his  own  profession  for 
quite  some  time.  When  I entered,  he  snicked  his  scis- 
sors smartly  in  the  air  over  his  customer's  head  and 
nodded,  eyeing  me,  I thought,  a little  oddly  as  I sat 
down  to  wait.  In  any  case,  the  man  seemed  well  dis- 
posed, once  1 was  finally  in  the  chair,  to  let  me 
drowse  the  way  1 like  to  do.  Soon  I was  warmly 
ensconced  in  the  cozy  privacy  and  carefree  flow  of 
my  thoughts. 

I think  crazy  things  sometimes  while  I'm  get- 
ting a haircut;  I mean  really  crazy.  You  could  be  put 
away  someplace  for  thinking  the  sorts  of  things  that 
run  through  my  head  on  the  inside  while  the 
barber's  instruments  are  humming  and  nibbling 
away  at  the  outside.  Sometimes  I'm  worlds  apart 
from  the  everyday  talk  and  activity  going  on  around 
me:  And  on  that  particular  Saturday  afternoon, 
while  the  other  customer,  a high  school  kid,  talked 
loudly  about  some  spectacular  touchdown,  with  the 
usual  assortment  of  waiting  customers  chiming  in 


from  the  chairs  along  the  wall,  where  they  browsed 
their  well-thumbed  girlie  njagazines,  I was  mentally 
far  away,  in  vastly  different  fields,  and  smugly  glad 
that  nobody  could  know  what  I was  thinking. 

I was  indulging,  in  fact,  in  my  favorite 
barber-chair  fantasy:  imagining  that  the  barber  was 
a witch  doctor  or  medicine  man  who  danced  about 
me,  ministering  to  my  needs.  I know  how  strange 
that  must  sound,  but  barbers  in  olden  times  did 
often  double  as  surgeons;  they  even  used  to  bleed 
patients.  (It's  said  that  the  traditional  red  and  white 
stripes  on  the  barber  pole  may  derive  from  the  rolls 
of  white  towels  streaked  red  in  this  process.)  And 
besides,  I happened  to  be  feeling  rather  poorly  that 
day  and  was  in  the  mood  to  be  pampered.  I had 
recently  been  diagnosed  as  suffering  from  high  blood 
pressure;  my  doctor  had  declared  salt  to  be  a no-no 
and  regular  exercise  a mUst,  though  this  regimen 
hadn't  yet  seemed  to  help.  So  maybe  it  wasn't  so  in- 
sane a fantasy  after  all. 

As  the  barber  hummecf  a formless  tune  be- 
tween remarks  about  the  football  game,  I 
imagined  him  intoning  some  ancestral  ritual 
chant  that  ululated  eerily  on  the  night  wind,  beneath 
a black  jungle  sky  wreathed  with  gnarled  trees  and 
fragmented  by  dark  curls  of  smoke  that  rose  from  a 
crackling  native  fire.  As  the  barber's  electric  clippers 
hummed  beside  my  head,  I thought  of  great  green 
buzzing  insects  that  were  part  of  the  healing 
ceremony.  Somewhere  iif  the  clearing,  within  the  cir- 
cle of  firelight,  an  ancient  and  wizened  woman,  her 
face  wrinkled  like  the  over-folded  visage  of  a lizard, 
would  be  chewing  these  pungent-smelling  insects  in 
a nearly  toothless  mouth  that,  at  other  times,  spoke 
a timeless,  weirdly  inflected,  and  unimaginable 
language. 

The  buzzing  clippers  gave  way  to  the  snipping 
of  scissors  at  the  top  of  my  head,  and  my  beguiled 
fancy  transmuted  them  into  great  gourd-rattlers 
which  the  venerated  witch  doctor  shook  and  bran- 
dished vigorously  as  he  pranced,  hideously  painted 
and  masked,  around  my  receptive  form,  he  himself 
entranced  by  the  ageless  and  incomprehensible  chant 
that  he  was  mouthing.  Every  muscle  in  my  body 
relaxed  utterly  as  I gave  myself  over  to  the  care  of 
this  undulating  shaman  and  his  incantatory  power 
over  the  nature-spirits.  My  eyes  remained  closed  in 
reverie;  I was  a docile  and  willing  patient. 

The  nearby  conversation  about  football 
gradually  grew  muffled  and  oddly  distorted,  and 
soon  I imagined  that  the  speaking  voices  were  in 
another  language.  Well,  I thought,  that  couldn't  be 
all  that  strange,  'in  a neighborhood  full  of  Poles 
and  Italians  and  Greeks  and  Canadian  French, 
though  why  they  had  suddenly  abandoned  English  I 
couldn't  understand — maybe  through  some  clannish 
desire  to  exchange  remarks  that  they  didn't  want  me, 
an  outsider,  to  be  privy  to.  But  it  was  no  language 

' a 


Twilight  Zone  73 


A liittle  Tiiiro-CHair 
Barber  Sbop  on 
Pbillif>s  Street 


that  I could  even  identify. 

I felt  awkward  and  out  of  place,  and  kept  my 
eyes  closed.  To  my  surprise,  one  of  the  speakers  in 
this  unaccountable  exchange  was  my  barber,  who  in- 
creasingly seemed  to  dominate  the  scene,  his  voice 
rising  little  by  little  to  a kind  of  chant. 

The  barber  chair  now  felt  peculiarly  scratchy 
and  hard,  and  all  of  a sudden  I realized  that  I 
seemed  to  be  sitting  in  it  crosslegged.  Good 
God — had  I unconsciously  drawn  my  legs  up  into 
the  chair?  What  would  people  think  if  they  noticed 
it?  Maybe  they  already  had.  With  a start  of  embar- 
rassment, 1 flicked  open  my  eyes. 

I was  indeed  sitting  crosslegged — but  on  a 
thatched  mat  on  the  ground  near  a roaring  fire  that 
sent  black  billows  of  smoke  spiraling  up  over  the 
great  overhanging  trees  and  into  the  night  sky.  I was 
nude;  I could  feel  the  warmth  from  the  fire  on  my 
body  and  face,  and  my  head  seemed  to  be  smeared 
with  some  oily  substance  that  smelled  like  mint. 
Around  me  in  great  prancing  circles  gyrated  a 
grotesque  figure,  painted  all  over  in  zigzagging  red 
patterns  and  naked  except  for  a repellently  grimacing 
yellow  and  blue  mask  that  covered  the  head  and 
came  halfway  down  the  chest,  tufts  of  white  hair 
floating  at  the  edges.  This  figure  was  bellowing  some 
rhythmic,  hypnotic  chant  that  I could  understand 
nothing  of  at  all,  and  was  vigorously  shaking  two 
enormous  and  ^tricately  colored  gourds,  producirtg 
a rattling  cadence  that  seemed  to  blend  unobtru- 
sively Muth  the  song  that  he  intoned.  Unable  to 
move,  I merely^atched,  fascinated.  In  the  light  cast 
by  the  licking  flames,  I saw  other  dancing  figures 
and  a shriveled  old  woman  sitting  off  to  my  left,  her 
eyes  glazed  over  catatonically  as  she  chewed  some- 
thing I no  longer  cared  to  try  very  hard  to  imagine. 

Without  warning  all  sound  and  movement 
ceased.  The  cavorting  figures  froze  in  their  tracks; 
the  masked  dancer  dropped  dustily  in  an  inert  heap 
on  the  ground  before  me.  I wondered  if  he  was  still 
breathing,  but  in  the  next  moment  he  straightened 
up  and  motioned  to  someone  at  his  side.  A muscular 
young  celebrant  squatted  beside  me  and  began  daub- 
ing a vile-smelling  orange  paste  on  my  throat,  which 
immediately  went  quite  numb.  The  man  produced 
some  object  that  I could  not  quite  see  clearly  and, 
with  the  masked  doctor  watching  solemnly,  made  a 
painless  incision,  whereupon  the  one  in  the  medicine 
mask  came  forward  to  me  on  his  knees  with  what 
appeared  to  be  a long  transparent  reed  in  his  hand, 
placing  one  end  of  it  at  my  throat  and  sucking  on 
the  other.  A deep,  concerted  moan  went  up  all 
around,  and  the  other  dancers  began  moving  again, 
encircling  me  and  periodically  lunging  in  my  direc- 
tion with  terrifying,  wide-eyed  shrieks.  ' 

All  of  this  so  distracted  me  that  I didn't  at 
first  notice  the  second  incision. 

The  man  in  the  mask  was  still  sucking  steadily 


on  the  tube,  but  now  the  tube  ran  to  my  chest,  and 
my  whole  frame  was  suddenly  shaken  by  an  access 
of  hideous,  searing  pain.  The  tube  itself — the  long 
slender  reed  now  puffed  so  full  of  dark,  coursing 
blood — was  writhing  spasmodically,  like  some  sly 
serpent  insinuating  itself  into  my  body.  God  in  heav- 
en— the  thing  was  inserted  directly  into  my  heart! 

Gouts  of  smoke  bodded  ^lnd  swirled  into  the 
sky,  black  against  black,  and  as  the  dancers  con- 
tinued to  lunge  and  shriek  in  nightmare  profusion 
and  the  masked  shaman  nodded  over  his  work,  my 
senses  blurred,  the  scene  growing  dim  and  diffuse. 
The  firelight  seemed  to  expand,  turning  pallid  and 
grainy-looking,  and  I felt  myself  slipping  into  a 
faint.  My  eyes  closed  wearily. 

With  a sudden  jerk  I opened  my  eyes  again, 
to  see  the  barber  calmly  putting  down  his  familiar 
implements.  He  levered  the  chair  back  down  for  me 
to  dismount.  "Done,"  he  said,  and  immediately  re- 
joined the  sports  talk  that  filled  the  air  of  the  shop, 
pausing  only  to  interject,  "Next!" 

I paid  him  and  left,  vaguely  aware  of  a little 
discomfort  and  wondering  if  perhaps  I'd  caught  a 
cold.  I postponed  my  book-browsing  and  went 
home,  but  I didn't  come  down  with  anything  after 
all. 

1 returned  to  the  bookstore  on  Phillips  Street  two 
days  later,  but  right  a.way  had  the  distressing 
feeling  that  I was  awfully  mixed  up  about 
something.  The  window  next  door  was  that  of  a 
rather  dingy-looking  little  bakery  from  which 
aromas  of  fresh-baked  bread  and  steaming  apple  pies 
wafted  out  to  the  sidewalk,  making  odd  alchemy 
with  the  auto  exhaust.  I stepped  into  the  bookshop 
— my  God,  could  there  be  two?  could  I be  on  the 
wrong  street? — and  nodded  to  the  woman  behind 
the  cash  register,  an  owlish  creature  who  looked 
rather  like  the  stereotype  of  an  elderly  town 
librarian. 

"Say,  what  happened  to  the  barber  shop  next 

door?" 

She  looked  at  me  as  if  I had  asked  her  for  a 
railway  ticket  to  Saturn.  "Next  door?  That's  the 
Keating  Bake  Shoppe." 

I stared  at  her  helplessly.  "But  wasn't  there 
a — I thought  this  was  Phillips  Street." 

"It  is,"  she  said  with  some  impatience.  "The 
bakery's  been  there  ever  since  I was  a little  girl.  I get 
my  doughnuts  there  every  morning.  Always  have." 
As  if  to  prove  her  point,  she  reached  into  a paper 
bag  and  pulled  forth  a doughnut,  which  she  was 
munching  on  as  I left  the  store. 

It's  really  too  bad,  because  I have  a hard  time 
finding  a barber  that  will  leave  me  to  my  thoughts 
while  cutting  my  hair  the  way  I like  it.  The  odd 
thing  is,  my  doctor  told  me  just  this  morning  that 
my  blood  pressure  is  down  to  normal.  10  ’ 


74  Twilight  Zone 


Tracking  Down  the  TZ  Alumni 


STARS  FROM  THE  SERIES  TURNED  UP  JUST  ABOUT  EVERYWHERE, 
FROM  MISSION:  IMPOSSIBLE  TO  MARY  TYLER  *MOORE. 


What  do  Widiam  Shatner, 
Leonard  Nimoy,  James 
Doohan,  and  George  Takei 
have  in  common? 

If  you  said  Star  Trek,  you're  only 
half  right— because  all  of  them  also 
appeared  in  various  episodes  of  The 
Twilight  Zone.  William  Shatner  starred 
in  two  shows,. "Nick  of  Time"  and  the 
celebrated  "Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet," 
both  of  them  written  by  Richard  Math- 
eson  (who  also  penned  a Star  Trek). 
Leonard  Nimoy  appeared  in  "A  Qual- 
ity of  Mercy,"  minus  his  now  famous 
ears,  and  James  Doohan,  sans  accent, 
had  a role  in  "Valley  of  the  Shadow." 
George  Takei  costarrecl  in  "The  En- 
counter," one  of  The  Twilight  Zone's 
unsyndicated  and  therefore  seldom 
seen  episodes. 

In  addition  to  the  13ig  Four,  more 
than  twenty  other  Twilight  Zone  veter- 
ans also  turned  up  in  Star  Trek.  Wil- 
liam Windom  (in  TZ's  "Five  Characters 
in  Search  of  an  Exit"  and  "Miniature") 
played  Commodore  Matthew  Decker 
in  "The  Doomsday  Machine.”  Robert 
Lansing  and  Mariette  Hartley,  those 
time-crossed  lovers  in  TZ's  "The  Long 


Morrow,"  starred,  respectively,  in  Star 
Trek's  "Assignment:  Earth"  and  "All 
Our  Yesterdays."  Julie  Newmar  ("Of 
Late  I Think  of  Cliffordville")  played 
Eleen  in  "Friday's  Child."  Susan 
Oliver,  who  helped  cage  a space  travel- 
er in  TZ's  "People  Are  Alike  All 
Over,"  appeared  in  Star  Trek's  pilot 
episode,  "The  Cage." 

Some  of  Trek's  Vulcans  also  show 
up  in  Twilight  Zone  episodes.  Celia 
Lovsky  costars  in  "Queen  of  the  Nile," 
Arlene  (Sax)  Martel  in  "Twenty-Two," 
and  Barry  Atwater  in  "The  Monsters 
Are  Due  on  Maple  Street."  Star  Trek 
director  Joseph  Sargent  acted  in  TZ's 
"In  His  Image,"  and  several  Twilight 
Zone  directors  also  directed  episodes  of 
Star  Trek:  Tony  Leader  (Trek's  "For 
the  World  Is  Hollow  and  I Have 
Touched  the  Sky"),  Robert  Butler  (part 
two  of  "The  Menagerie"),  and  Robert 
Gist  ("The  Galileo  Seven").  TZ  director 
Ralph  Senensky  did  seven  Star  Trek 
segments,  including  "The  Tholian 
Web,"  "This  Side  of  Paradise,"  and 
"Metamorphosis." 

After  Leonard  Nimoy  left  Star 
Trek,  he  joined  the  cast  of  Mission: 


Impossible.  That  series'  Greg  Morris, 
who  played  technical  wizard  Barney 
Collier,  appeared  in  Twilight  Zone's 
"The  7th  Is  Made  Up  of  Phantoms," 
while  Martin  Landau,  Nimoy's  prede- 
cessor in  Mission,  was  in  "Mr.  Denton 
on  Doomsday"  and  "The  Jeopardy 
Room."  Landau  went  on  to  star  in  the 
science  fiction  tv  series  Space:  1999 
with  costar  Barry  Morse  of  TZ's  "A 
Piano  in  the  House. "Antoinette  Bower 
("Probe  7 — Over  and  Out")  costarred 
in  Missio^  as  Nora. 

Other  sf  series  regulars  also 
appeared  in  The  Twilight  Zone: 
Richard  Basehart,  who,  as  Admiral 
Harriman  Nelson,  commanded  the  sub- 
marine in  tv's  Voyage  to  the  Bottom  of 
the  Sea,  traveled  up  instead  of  down  in 
Twilight  Zone's  "Probe  7 — Over  and 
Out,"  and  the  same  series'  Terry 
Becker  (Crew  Chief  Sharkey)  appeared 
in  TZ's  "1  Am  the  Night — Color  Me 
Black."  TZ  verteran  composer  Jerry 
Goldsmith  wrote  some  Voyage  music; 
TZ  directors  Alan  Crofland,  Jr. , and 
Justis  Addis  also  worked  for  the 
series.  I&  My  Living  Doll,  Bob 
Cummings  (TZ's  "King  Nine  Will  Not 

.it 


Twilight  Zone  75 


Return”)  starred  as  Bob  McDonald,  a 
psychiatrist  who  oversaw  the  character 
development  of  a gorgeous  robot 
named  Rhoda — Julie  Newmar  again,  of 
TZ's  "Cliffordville." 

Jonathan  Harris,  the  cowardly  Dr. 
Zachary  Smith  of  Lost  in  Space,  was 
also  a doctor  in  TZ's  "Twenty-Two," 
and  appeared  in  "The  Silence"  as  well. 
Billy  Mumy  {Space's  Will  Robinson) 
played  the  fiendishly  gifted  Anthony 
Fremont  in  "It's  a Good  Life"  and  also 
starred  in  "The  Long  Distance  Call" 
and  "In  Praise  of  Pip." 

Outside  the  world  of  science 
fiction,  one  of  the  most  popular 
stopping-off  places  for  Twilight  Zone 
alumni  was  Mayberry,  that  quintes- 
sential American  small  town  of  The 
Andy  Griffith  Show.  Ronnie  Howard 


(the  show's  Opie  Taylor),  one  of  the 
people  who  stayed  on  the  Griffith 
series  throughout  its  entire  eight-year 
run,  turned  up  as  a little  boy  in 
another  small  town,  Homewood,  in 
Rod  Serling's  "Walking  Distance." 
Howard  Morris  (Ernest  T.  Bass)  ap- 
peared in  "I  Dream  of  Genie,"  and 
George  Lindsey  (Goober  Pyle)  played  a 
deputy  in  "1  Am  the  Night — Color  Me 
Black."  Howard  McNear  JMayberry 
barber  Floyd  Lawson)  was  featured  in 
two  Twilight  Zones,  "The  Bard"  and 
"Hocus-Pocus  and  Frisby."  James  Best 
(Jim  Lindsey)  was  also  in  two,  "The 
Grave,"  in  which  he  played  a guitar- 
toting  cowboy,  and  "The  Last  Rites  of 
Jeff  Myrtlebank,"  in  which,  as  the  title 
character,  he  resurfaced  after  having 
been  pronounced  dead.  (Coincidental- 


ly, in  one  of  his  Griffith  Show  ap- 
pearances, he  played  a guitarist  who 
resurfaces  unexpectedly — though  in  not 
quite  so  dramatic  a fashion  as  he  did 
on  The  Twilight  Zone.) 

In  addition,  Paul  Hartman  (repair- 
man Emmett  Clark)  appeared  in  "Back 
There,"  Jean  Carson  (Andy's  erstwhile 
girlfriend  Daphne)  had  a lead  in  "A 
Most  Unusual  Camera,"  and  Ken  Lynch 
(the  irascible  Captain  Barker  from  the 
state  police)  was  a westerner  in  "Mr. 
Denton  on  Doomsday." 

Many  other  actors  appeared  in 
single  episodes  of  The  Andy  Griffith 
Show,  among  them  Don  Rickies  (TZ's 
"Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong"),  Buddy 
Ebsen  ("The  Prime  Mover"),  and  Bill 
Bixby  ("The  7'hirty-Fathom  Grave"). 
Perennial  old-timer  Burt  Mustin 


76  Twilight  Zone 


1.  They  rocketed  to  stardom  In  Star  Trek,  but  the  crew  of 
the  Enterprise  had  already  made  its  mark  in  The  Twilight 

Zone:  Leonard  Nimoy  in  “A  Quality  of  Mercy,”  William 
Shatner  in  “Nick  of  Time”  and  “Nightmare  at  20,000 
Feet,"  and  James  Doc^an  In  “Valley  of  the  Shadow." 

2.  Star  Trek's  pilot  episode  featured  Susan  Oliver  (seen  In 
Twilight  Zone's  "People  Are  Alike  All  Over”)  and  Jeffrey 
Hunter.  3.  Richard  Basehart  ("Probe  7— Over  and  Out") 

starred  In  Voyage  to  the  Bottom  of  the  Sea.  4.  Jonathan 
Harris  ("Twenty-Two"  and  "The  Silence”)  was  Lost  In  Space 
with  Robby  the  Robot's  cousin.  5.  Also  along  for  the  ride 
were  Guy  Williams,  Billy  Mumy  (star  of  “It's  a Good  Life,"  “In 
Praise  of  Pip,”  and  "Long  Distance  Call”),  Albert  Salmi,  and, 

at  far  right,  Mark  Goddard. 


("Night  of  the  Meek,"  "Kick  the  Can") 
also  appeared  in  a few  Griffith  shows. 
Frank  Sutton,  Corner  Pyle,  USMC's 
Sergeant  Carter,  who  tried  to  manage 
Jim  Nabors  as  the  goofy  marine, 
played  Cliff  Robertson's  manager  in 
"The  Dummy."  Actors  V^filliam  Idelson 
("A  World  of  Difference")  and  Lee 
Philips  ("Queen  of  the  Nile")  did 
directing  stints  on  the  Griffith  show; 
Idelson  also  did  some  writing  for  it. 

Many  of  the  regulars  on  The  Bev- 
erly Hillbillies  were  also  Twilight  Zone 
alumni.  Buddy  Ebsen  (Jed  Clampett) 
appeared,  as  noted  above,  in  "The 
Prime  Mover."  Donna  Douglas  (Elly 
May  Clampett)  starred — without  her 
Southern  drawl — in  "The  Eye  of  the 
Beholder"  and  "Cavender  Is  Coming." 
Raymond  Bailey  (banker  Milburn 


Drysdale)  had  roles  in  "Escape  Clause," 
"Back  There,"  and  "From  Agnes — With 
Love."  Nancy  Kulp,  who  played  his 
secretary  Jane  Hathaway,  appeared  in 
"The  Fugitive."  Percy  Helton  (hapless 
bank  teller  Homer  Cratchit)  can  be 
seen  in  "Mute"  and  "Mr.  Garrity  and 
the  Graves."  Fred  Clark  (Dr.  Roy 
Clyburn)  and  Richard  Deacon  (who 
played  a psychiatrist)  were  cast, 
respectively,  in  "A  Most  Unusual 
Camera"  and  "The  Brain  Center  at 
Whipple's." 

Virtually  all  the  stars  from  Be- 
witched were  also  featured  in  The  Twi- 
light Zone.  Elizabeth  Montgomery  (Sa- 
mantha Stevens)  played  the  lead  in 
"Two,"  while  Dick  York  (husband 
Darrin  Stevens)  appeared  in  "A  Penny 
for  Your  Thoughts"  and  "The  Purple 


Testament,"  in  both  of  which  he  exhib- 
ited strange  mental  powers  that  might 
have  proved  useful  on  Bewitched.  Ag- 
nes Moorehead  (Samantha's  witch  of  a 
mother)  starred  in  "The  Invaders,"  but 
for  once  she  had  no  spoken  lines.  Da- 
vid White  (Darrin's  boss,  Larry  Tate) 
played  in  "I  Sing  the  Body  Electric" 
and  "A  World  of  Difference,"  and  Roy 
Roberts  (Darrin's  father,  Frank 
Stevens)  played  in  "A  Kind  of 
Stopwatch."  Twilight  Zone  director 
William  Asher  also  directed  some  of 
the  Bewitched  series. 

Mr.  ^Novak  was  another  series 
whose  stars  were  TZ  players.  The 
teacher  himself,  John  Novak,  was 
played  by  James  Franciscus,  who  ap- 
peared in  TZ's  "Judgment  Night," 
while  Dean  Jagger  (school  principal  Al- 


Twiligfit  Zone  77 


bert  Vane)  starred  in  "Static."  Burgess 
Meredith,  who  played  English  teacher 
and  later  principal  Martin  Woodridge 
(and  who  is  interviewed  in  this  issue), 
starred  in  the  memorable  "Time 
Enough  at  Last,"  "Mr.  Dingle,  The 
Strong,"  "The  Obsolete  Man,"  and 
"Printer's  Devil." 

Inger  Stevens,  who,  as  Katy  Hol- 
strum,  had  the  title  role  in  The 
Farmer's  Daughter,  played  tragic  vic- 
tims in  two  Twilight  Zone  segments, 
"The  Hitch-Hiker"  and  "The  Lateness 
of  the  Hour."  In  the  latter  she  was 
transformed  into  a domestic— good 
preparation,  perhaps,  for  her  job  in 
Farmer's  Daughter.  The  man  she 
worked  for,^  Congressman  Glen  Mor- 
ley,  was  played  by  William  Windom, 
who  appeared — as  noted  above — in 


"Miniature"  and  "Five  Characters  in 
Search  of  an  Exit,"  portraying,  in  the 
second,  an  appropriately  take-charge 
kind  of  guy.  Alice  Frost  (Mama  Hol- 
strum)  had  parts  in  "It's  a Good  Life" 
and  "The  Sixteen-Millimeter  Shrine." 
Finally,  Nancy  Rennick  (Katy's  friend 
Margaret)  appeared  in  "The  After 
Hours"  and  "The  Odyssey  of  Flight  33." 

The  highly  rated  and  long-running 
western  series  The  Virginian  was  also 
well  represented  in  The  Twilight  Zone. 
In  fact,  no  less  than  seven  former  TZ 
directors  had  a hand  in  directing  it; 
Abner  Biberman,  John  Brahm,  Alan 
Crosland,  Robert  Gist,  Tony  Leader, 
James  Sheldon,  and  Don  Weis.  Vi'r- 
ginian  costars  John  Mclntire  and 
Jeanette  Nolan,  husband  and  wife  in 
real  life  (and  Clay  and  Holly  Grainger 


in  the  series)  appeared  respectively  in 
"The  Chaser"  and  "The  Flunt."  John 
Dehner,  cowboy  Morgan  Starr  in  this 
series  (years  after  playing  Paladin  in 
the  radio  version  of  Have  Gun,  Will 
Travel),  was  a gunslinger  in  "Mr.  Gar- 
rity  and  the  Graves,"  and  also  ap- 
peared in  "The  Lonely"  and  "The  Jun- 
gle." Virginian  costar  Doug  McClure 
(Trampas)  was  likewise  a gunslinger  in 
"Mr.  Denton  on  Doomsday." 

McClure  toted  a more  modern  gun 
as  detective  Jed  Sills,  one  of  the  leads 
in  Checkmate.  That  series'  costar,  Se- 
bastian Cabot,  who  played  the  rotund 
criminologist  Dr.  Carl  Hyatt,  switched 
sides  when  he  played  the  devil  in  TZ's 
"A  Nice  Place  to  Visit." 

Both  costcirs  of  the  popular  but 
short-lived  mystery  series  Ellery  Queen 


78  Twilight  Zone 


6.  George  Lindsay  ("I  Am  the  Night— Color  Me  Black") 
played  Goober  Pyle  in  the  long-running  Andy  Griffith  Show. 

7.  The  Beverly  Hillbillies  Clampett  clan  (clockwise  from  top 
left):  Irene  Ryan,  Max  Baer,  Jr.,  Buddy  Ebsen  ("The  Prime 
Mover"),  and  Donna  Douglas  (“The  Eye  of  the  Beholder," 
“Cavender  Is  Coming").  8.  Ted  Knight  of  The  Mary  Tyler 
Moore  Show  was  featured  In  TZ's  "The  Lonely.”  9.  Science 
fiction  classic  Forbidden  Planet  starred  Anne  Francis  ("Jess- 
Belle,"  "The  After  Hours”)  and  Robby  the  Robot  ("Uncle 
Simon,"  "The  Brain  Center  at  Whipple’s").  lO.  Forbidden 
Planets  Earl  Holliman  ("Where  Is  Everybody?”)  and  friend. 


\ 


faced  greater  perils  in  The  Twilight  not  so  famous)  can  boast  a cast  who  astronaut  in  Elegy,  while  that  film  s 

Zone.  Jim  Hutton  (Ellery  Queen)  simp-  shared  Twilight  Zone  credits.  Forbid-  costar  Russell  Johnson  starred  in  "Exe- 

ly  vanished  without  explanation  in  den  Planet,  one  of  the  most  highly  re-  cution  and  Back  There.  Another  co- 

"And  When  the  Sky  Was  Opened,"  garded  sf  films  ever  made,  features  star,  Lance  Fuller,  was  featured  in  "The 

while  David  Wayne  (Inspector  Queen)  four  individuals  with  certified  TZ  ex-  Last  Rites  of  Jeff  Myrtlebank." 

was  an  immortal  condemned  to  life  im-  perience — but  only  three  are  human.  Even  The  Thing,  the  1951  classic 

prisonment  in  "Escape  Clause."  Anne  Francis  (Altaira  Morbius)  was  adaptation  of  John  W.  Campbell's 

Two  regulars  of  one  of  tv's  best-  seen  in  "Jess-Belle"  and  "The  After  story  "Who  Goes  There?",  contributed 

loved  sitcoms.  The  Mary  Tyler  Moore  Hours."  Earl  Holliman  (the  ship's  cook)  its  share  to  The  Twilight  Zone,  for  co- 

Show,  showed  a more  serious  side  in  starred  in  The  Twilight  Zone's  pilot  stars  Robert  Cornthwaite  (Dr.  Carring- 

The  Twilight  Zone.  Ted  Knight  (the  episode,  "Where  Is  Everybody?"  and  ton)  and  Dewey  Martin  (the  crew 

ineffable  Ted  Baxter)  was  a crewman  Warren  Stevens  (Ostrow,  the  ship's  chief)  were  seen,  respectively,  in 

on  the  relief  spaceship  in  "The  Lonely,"  doctor)  wore  "Dead  Man's  Shoes.  Showdown  with  Ranee  McGrew  and 
behaving  every  bit  as  arrogantly  as  Robby  the  Robot,  designed  by  artist  I Shot  an  Arrow  into  the  Air.  Thing 

Ted  Baxter  would  have.  Cloris  Leach-  Bob  Kinoshita  (who  also  designed  the  'director  Christian  Nyby  also  directed 

man  was  the  terrified  mother  in  "It's  a Lost  in  Space  robot),  makes  guest  ap-  several  TZ  episodes. 

Goo^  Life";  she'd  have  handled  things  pearances  in  "Uncle  Simon"  and  "The  Coincidence — or  something  more? 

better  as  Phyllis  Lindstrom.  Brain  Center  at  Whipple's."  Perhaps  what's  uncommon  on  earth  is 

More  appropriately,  three  famous  Jeff  Morrow,  the  alien  scientist  just  another  common  denominator  in 

science  fiction  films  (and  many  others  Exeter  in  This  Island  Earth,  was  an  ...  the  Twilight  Zone.  iS 


Twilight  Zone  79 


BURGESS  MEREDITH 

(continued  from  page  31) 

They  were  close  to  completing  the.  pic- 
ture when  they  called  me,  so  I don't 
think  that  using  a voice-over  was.  part 
of  their  original  design.  Of  course,  no 
matter  what  happened  with  the  film,  I 
knew  that  the  series  would  always  be 
there  for  people  to  see.  Since  I was 
anonymous — which  both  the  producers 
and  I preferred—  I even  tried  to  sound 
a little  like  "the  boss,"  to  help  capture 
some  of  the  original  flavor.  I'm  not  an 
imitator,  but  1 did  attempt  to  go  a bit 
for  Rod's  cadence. 

TZ:  Was  there  ever  any  discussion  of 
your  appearing  on  camera  the  way 
Rod  used  to? 

Meredith:  No.  That  would  have  been 
an  entirely  different  matter.  Those 
walk-ons  were,  after  all.  Rod's  trade- 
mark. To  have  me  also  do  it  may  not 
have  been  good  showmanship. 

TZr  Looking  toward  the  future,  would 
you  like  to  do  more  fantasy  projects, 
since  it's  a field  you  apparently  eftjoy? 
Meredith:  -It  entirely  depends  on  their 
quality.  I don't  really  go  toward  any 
genre;  I don't  think  that  many  actors 
do.  You've  got  to  remember  that  the 
actor  doesn't  write  those  scripts.  He's 
simply  given  several  choices  and  picks 
the  one  he  thinks  is  best  or  selects  a 
project  because  he  needs  the  money — if 
he  has  any  choice  at  all.  Of  course,  if  I 


" find  a good  project  that  happens  to  be 
fantasy,  that's  wonderful. 

TZ:  To  bring  our  conversation  full  cirr 
cle;  when  you  first  appeared  on  The 
Twilight  Zone,  did  you  ever  think  that 
the  show  would  have  its  incredible 
lasting  power? 

Meredith:  Oh,  yes.  I didn't  think  that 
that  would  happen  with  Batman,  but  I 
felt  sure  it  would  occur  with  all  of 
Twilight  Zone's  episodes.  As  you  must 
realize  by  now.  I'm  a fan  of  that  type 
of  thing.  I would  have  thought  The 
Twilight  Zone  would  last  even  if  I 
hadn't  been  involved  with  it!  IS 

NOSTALGIA 

(continued  from  page  19) 
report  on  one  of  the  Earth's  Core 
novels  for  class  credit.  It  took 
considerable  glibness  on  my  part  to 
convince  him  the  book  was  literature 
and  not  trash. 

It  was  while  turning  myself  into 
a Burroughs  scholar  that  I wrote  to 
the  author  himself.  Finding  his 
address  in  Who's  Who  (I  thought  it 
quite  nifty  that  he  resided  in  a 
California  town  named  Tarzana), 

I wrote  praising  his  works  and 
requesting  his  autograph.  Quite  soon 
he  replied,  below  an  impressive  Edgar 
Rice  Burroughs,  Inc.,  letterhead,  with 
a very  formal  and  businesslike  reply 
granting  my  request.  That  next 


Christmas  I sent  him  a dime-store 
greeting  card,  and  he  sent  me  a card 
in  return.  I think  this  went  on  every 
Christmas  for  two  or  three  years, 
until  he  died  in  1950.  In  case  you're 
wondering,  the  signatures  are 
authentic,  not  rubber-stamped  and 
not  whipped  off  by  a secretary. 

Somewhere  in  the  Burroughs 
archives  in  Tarzana  my  long  ago 
cards  are  no  doubt  moldering  in  a 
file  box — quite  probably,  alas,  along 
with  the  parody  of  Burroughs  and  all 
his  works  that  I wrote  in  1963.  Titled 
The  Yes  Men  of  Venus,  it  ran  in 
Amazing  Stories  and  kidded  just 
about  all  of  ERB's  immortal 
characters.  As  I'd  done  with  Rohmer, 

I finally  got  Burroughs  out  of  my 
system  by  doing  a parody,  Bui 
though  Rohmer  fans  actually 
reprinted  my  Fu  Manchu  takeoff,  ERB 
idolaters  didn't  take  my  spoof  quite 
so  well.  One  of  ERB's  biographers 
referred  to  my  piece  thusly:  "|Itl  is 
bitter  instead  of  wry,  vicious  instead 
of  entertaining,  and  generally  in  bad 
taste.  It  is  hard  to  imagine  why  it 
was  published.  " 

I have  a feeling  that  Edgar  Rice 
Burroughs  himself,  who  obviously 
had  a sense  of  humor,  wouldn't  have 
taken  the  matter  that  seriously. 

Still,  I wouldn't  care  to  run  into 
Tarzan  in  a dark  stretch  of  jungle.  10 


ANSWERS  TO /\  ‘TWILIGHT  ZONE’  TRIVIA  QUIZ  (from  page  21) 


I.  TITLE  TURMOIL 

1.  "A  Stop  at  Willoughby” 

2.  "Nervous  Man  in  a Four  Dollar  Room” 

3.  "Long  Live  Walter  Jameson" 

4.  "Cavender  Is  Coming” 

5.  "The  Trouble  with  Templeton” 

6.  "Mr.  Garrity  and  the  Graves” 

7.  "The  Obsolete  Man" 

8.  "Showdown  with  Ranee  McGrew" 

9.  "Mr.  Denton  on  Doomsday" 

10.  "The  Last  Night  of  a Jockey" 


Whipple's”  and  "Uncle  Simon”). 

12.  "The  Invaders." 

13.  b. 

14.  "A  World  of  His  Own." 

15.  Night  Gallery. 

16.  "Ninety  Years  Without 
Slumbering”  and  "One  for  the 
Angels." 

17.  Marius  Constant. 


15.  "Nothing  in  the  Dark.” 

16.  "Nick  of  Time,”  "Nightmare  at 
20,000  Feet." 

17.  "The  Lonely,"  "The  Mighty 
Casey." 

18.  "Shadow  Play." 

19.  "Third  from  the  Sun,”  "The 
Obsolete  Man." 


VII.  BITS  AND  PIECES 


8.  The  Hoboken  Zephyrs. 

9.  Ridgeview,  Ohio. 

10.  Nik  ta  Khrushchev. 

1 1 . Big  Phil  Nolan. 

12.  "Prccrassny,”  the  Russian  word 
for  "pretty." 

13.  Permanent  insanity. 

14.  Sergeant  Conners.  Private 
McCluskey.  Corporal  Langstorcl. 

15.  Centerville.  . . 

16.  Hatred. 


1.  Homewood. 

2.  Mr.  Cadwallader. 

3.  Maya. 

4.  The  S.S.  Queen  of  Glasgow. 

5.  Johnny  Foster,  musician:  Virgil 
Sterig,  gangster;  Andy  Marshak, 
boxer. 


VIII.  AND  NOW  A WORD  FROM 
ROD  SERLING 

1.  "Perchance  to  Dream.” 

2.  "The  Prirne  Mover." 

3.  "Time  Enough  at  Last." 

4.  "Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong.” 


III.  FACTS  AND  FIGURES 

1.  156. 

2.  91. 

3.  "I  Sing  the  Body  Electric." 

4.  Kuppenheimer  (Seasons  1 and 
2)  and  Eagle  Clothes  (Seasons  3,  4, 
and  5). 

5.  b. 

6.  "The  Bard." 

7.  "Where  is  Everybody?", 

October  2.  1959. 

8.  "The  Bewitchin'  Pool,"  June  19, 
1964. 

9.  c. 

10.  Six  ("Third  From  the  Sun,” 
"The  Monsters  Are  Due  on  Maple 
Street,"  "The  Invaders,"  "On 
Thursday  We  Leave  for  Home," 
"To  Serve  Man,”  and  "Death 
Ship”). 

11.  Two  ("The  Bfain  Center  at 


VI.  STAR  STRUCK 

1.  "The  Monsters  Are  Due  on 
Maple  Street,"  "The  Little  People." 

2.  "Mr.  Bevis.” 

3.  "Two.” 

4.  "Night  of  the  Meek.” 

5.  "The  Old  Man  in  the  Cave.” 

6.  "Miniature." 

7.  "The  Mirror." 

8.  "Once  Upon  a Time. " 

9.  "A  Passage  for  Trumpet,"  "A 
Game  of  Pool,”  "Death  Ship,”  "In 
Praise  of  Pip." 

10.  "The  Grave,”  "Steel.” 

11.  "Long  Live  Walter  Jameson." 

12.  "Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong,” 
"Time  Enough  at  Last,"  "The 
Obsolete  Man,”  "Printer's  Devil.” 

13.  "The  Invaders." 

14.  "In  Praise  of  Pip,"  "Long 
Distance  Call,"  "It's  a Good  Life.” 


6.  Air  Vice-Marshal  Alexander  5.  "The  Midnight  Sun." 

Mackaye  in  "The  Last  Flight,"  so  6.  "I  Shot  an  Arrow  into  the  Air.” 

named  because  of  an  injury  7.  "Spur  of  the  Moment.” 

sustained  in  World  War  I.  8.  "Long  Distance  Call." 

7.  A gold  thimble  for  her  mother.  9.  "The  Hunt.” 


SCORING  YOURSELF 

This  quiz 

contains  a total  of  91  questions.  Score 

yourself  one  point  for  each  correct  answer. 

91-68: 

Okay,  okay.  Rod,  quit  showing  off. 

67-46: 

You've  been  spending  a lot  of  time  in 
another  dimension. 

45-24: 

You  deserve  the  K.anamit  award  for 
supreme  intelligence. 

23  and  under:  Clearly  The  Twilight  Zone  wasn't  your 

1 

favorite  show.  , | 

80  Twilight  Zone 


I 


I 

Time  for  some 
good  reading! 

JULY  '81:  A dozen  new  tales  by  Robert  Silverberg,  Robert  Sheckley, 
Ron  Goulart,  Charles  L.  Grant,  Stanley  Schmidt,  & others;  Super- 
man's Richard  Donner  on  directing  The  Twilight  Zone;  Serling's  tv 
chiller.  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder;  Show-by-Show  #4.  SEPTEMBER: 
Richard  Matheson  interview;  new  fiction  by  John  Sladek,  Gary 
Brandner,  & Parke  Godwin;  tv  history.  Forerunners  of  ‘The  Twilight 
Zone';  Sferling  classic.  Time  Enough  at  Last;  Dr.  Van  Helsing  on  fear 
of  ghosts;  Show-by-Show  #(5.  NOVEMBER:  New  tales  by  Tanith 
Lee,  Thomas  Disch,  Ramsey  Campbell,  Stanley  Schmidt,  & Clark 
Howard;  John  Saul  interview;  TZ  script.  Death's  Head  Revisited; 
preview  of  Halloween  II;  Dr.  Van  Helsing  on  the  joy  of  terror;  Show- 
by-Show  #8.  DECEMBER:  An  outspoken  interview  with  Harlan 
Ellison;  The  Midnight  Sun,  TZ  classic  script;  M.  R.  James  profile  & 
James  classic.  The  Ash-Tree;  Quest  for  Fire  preview;  8 new  tales  of 
humor  1 horror;  Show-by-Show  #9.  JANUARY  '82:  Rod  Serling 
recalls  Aly  Most  Memorable  Christmas;  Frank  Belknap  Long  recalls 
H.P.  LoVecraft;  Ghost  Story  preview;  fiction  by  Robert  Sheckley, 
Reginald  Bretnor,  Parke  Godwin,  Connie  Willis,  & John  Morressy; 
The  Night  of  the  Meek,  Santei  in  TZ  classic;  LeFanu  profile  & classic 
tale;  Show-by-Show  #10.  MARCH:  Fritz  Leiber  interview,  plus 
Leiber  classic;  8 new  tales  by  Ron  Goulart,  Robert  Vardeman,  & 
others;  on  the  set  of  The  Thing;  preview  of  Stab,  with  Roy  Scheider 
& Meryl  Streep;  Serling's  A Passage  for  Trumpet;  Show-by-Show 
#12.  M^;  Peter  Straub's  new  novelette.  The  General's  Wife;  Terry 
Gilliam  interview;  on  the  Creepshow  set  with  Stephen  King  & 
George  Romero;  Serling's  The  Four  of  Us  Are  Dying,  plus  George 
Clayton  Johnson's  original  story;  7 new  tales  by  Connie  Willis,  Kit 
Reed,  & others;  Dark  Crystal  preview;  Tierney's  Doomsday  Poems; 
Show-by-Show  #14,  JUNE:  Richard  Matheson's  unseen  TZ  script. 
The  Doll;  Philip  K.  Dick  interview;  Blade  Runner  preview;  Fantasy 
in  Clay  photo  feature;  9 new  tales  by  Pamela  Sargent,  Richard  Chris- 
tian Matheson,  & others;  Show-by-Show  #15.  JULY:  Stories  by 
Robert  Silverberg,  Joan  Aiken,  & Joe  Lansdale;  Stephen  King  on 
films,  Thomas  Disch  on  books;  Robertson  Davies  interview  & story; 
Ghostly  Britain  photos;  preview  of  The  Thing;  Serling's  100  Yards 
Over  the  Rim;  making  The  last  Horror  Film;  Show-by-Show  #16. 
AUGUST:  Poe  & Robert  Bloch  together  in  The  Lighthouse;  Douglas 
Heyes,  TZ  director,  interviewed;  funhouse  photo^tour;  7 new  stories; 
a look  at  Tron,  Poltergeist,  and  E.T.;  Serling's  The  Trade-Ins;  Show- 
by-Show  #17.  SEPTEMBER:  Long-lost  Serling  radio  script;  previews 
of  Creepshow  and  Something  Wicked;  Paul  Schrader  interview; 
special  Arthur  Machen  section;  7 new  tales;  new  horror  quiz;  Show- 
by-Show  #18.  OCTOBER:  Nicholas  Meyer  interview  on  Star  Trek; 
Ireland's  ghostly  mansions;  t,sles  by  Avram  Davidson  and  Robert 
Sheckley;  SerBng's  In  Praise  of  Pip;  Show-by-Show  #19. 
NOVEMBER:  Jdhn  Carpenter  interview;  Stephen  King  on  The  Evil 
Dead;  Halloween  III  preview:  Serling's  Quality  of  Mercy;  8 great 
tales  for  Halloween;  Show-by-Show  #20.  DECEMBER:  Living  Doll, 
Charles  Beaumont's  TZ  classic:  Ridley  Scott's  interview;  L.  P. 
Hartley  profile;  Xtro  preview;  8 new  stories;  Show-by-Show  1(21. 
MARCH-APRIL  '83:  Contest  prizewinners;  Serling's  own  Twilight 
Zone  movie;  Colin  Wilson  interview;  The  Hunger  preview;  TZ  script 
& story  by  Richard  Matheson  Show-by-Show  #23.  JULY-AUGUST: 
New  photos  from  Twilight  Zone — The  Movie;  special  supernatural 
cat  issue;  Brainstorm  preview;  H.P.  Lovecraft  interview;  Serling's 
Five  Characters  in  Search  of  an  Exit;  Show-by-Show  #25. 
SEPT.-OCT.:  Special  Section,  Twilight  Zone — The  Movie;  4 new 
tales;  Fantasy  Acrostic  #2;  Johnson's  Kick  the  Can;  final  Show-by- 
Show  Guide  to  tv  s Twilight  Zone.  NOV. -DEC.:  Stories  by  Thomas 
M.  Disch,  Ramsey  Campbell,  and  6 others;  classic  vignette  by  Fredric 
Brown;  behind  the  scenes  at  The  Outer  Limits;  David  Cronenberg  in- 
terview; previews  of  Iceman  and  The  Dead  Zone;  Serling's  It's  A 
Good  Life.  JAN.-FEB.  '84:  Special  issue  featuring  1984  TZ  pull-out 
calendar;  Isaac  Bashevis  Singer  profile  & interview;  fiction  by  Singer, 
John  Carpenter,  and  4 others;  Christine  preview;  a chat  with  Stephen 
King;  critical  survey  of  1983's  fantasy  films;  Serling's  Mirror  Image; 
Outer  Limits  Show-by-Show  #1. 


now,  while  they're  still  available. 


(Issues  not  listed  are  no  longer  in  stock.) 

Please  send  me  the  foltowlng  back  issues  of  Rod  Serling's  THE  TWILIGHT  1 
ZONE  Magazine.  I enclose  $3.00  (In  check  or  money  order)  for  each  ■ 
issue,  payable  fo  TZ  Publications,  Inc.  J 


QUANTITY 

QUANTITY 

MAIL  TO; 

JUl.  ■«!  

SEPT. '82  

TZ  Publications 

SEPT. 

OCT. 

Back  Issues  Dept. 

NOV.  

NOV. 

P.O.  Box  252 

DEC.  

DEC.  

Mount  Morris,  IL  61054-0252 

JAN.  ’82 

APRIL  '83 

MAR. 

AUG. 

MAY 

OCT. 

JUN.  

DEC. 

JUL. 

FE8.  '84 

AUG.  

NAME 

8384 

ADDRESS 


CITY 

STATE 

ZIP 

Twiliaht  Zone  81 


Logo  by  G.  Hof 


WORKING  AT  TOUCH-TYPE  SPEED,  THE  SHOW'S  PRODUCERS  CHURNED 
' OUT  SCRIPTS,  REWROTE  OTHERS,  AND  GAVE  TV  AUDIENCES  A WEEKLY 

JOLT  OF  'TOLERABLE  TERROR.' 


The  Outer  Limits'  unconven- 
tional approach  quickly  moved 
ABC  to  ask  producers  Leslie 
Stevens  and  Joseph  Stefano  for  some 
sort  of  writer's  guide  for  prospective 
scripters — in  short,  a generalized  sum- 
mary of  just  what-  in  the  hell  Outer 
Limits  was  about.  Stefano  immediately 
hammered  out  a "bible"  for  distribu- 
tion to  literary  agencies,  titled  The 
Canons  of  'Please  Stand  By. ' While  it  is 
clear  that  he  viewed  something  so  ab- 
solute and  boiled-down  as  superfluous, 
it's  also  obvious  that  he  had  a bit  of 
fun  while  writing  it;  his  grandly  poet- 
ical, alliterative  style  is  evident 
throughout  the  fifteen-page  booklet. 

"Enlightenment,  education,  provo- 
cation and  soul-moving  are  the  end 
game  of  ail  drama,"  he  wrote,  "but  to 
these  must  be  added  the  experience  of 
terror.  It  must,  however,  be  TOLER- 
ABLE TERROR.  When  the  play  has 
ended,  when  the  Control  Voice  has  re- 
turned to  the  viewer  the  use  of  his  tv 
set,  that  willing  victim  of  the  terror 
must  be  able  to  relax  and  know  self- 
amusement and  realize  that  what  he 
feared  during  the  telling  of  the  story 


could  not  materialize  and  need  not  be 
feared  should  he  walk  out  of  his  house 
and  stroll  a night  street  . . . Each  play 
must  have  a 'BEAR.'  The  BEAR  is  the 
one  splendid,  staggering,  shuddering 
effect  that  induces  awe,  wonder,  toler- 
able terror  or  even  merely  conversation 
and  argument  ..." 

Between  Stefano  and  the  writers 
who  received  the  Canons  was  story 
consultant  Lou  Morheim,  whose  best- 
known  film  credit  was  that  of  co- 
scriptwriter on  The  Beast  from  20,000 
Fathoms.  Morheim  screened  oral  story 
submissions  and  rode  shotgun  on  the 
useful  ones  through  the  first-draft 
stage.  "I  got  scripts  from  well-known 
writers  that  you  just  would  not  have 
believed,"  remembers  Stefano.  "They 
were  unproducible.  We  initially  tried 
science  fiction  writers,  and  they  were 
the  worst!"  It  was  Morheim  who  drew 
talents  like  Robert  Towne  and  Meyer 
Dolinsky  to  the  show  (his  first  story 
purchase  was  the  latter's  "Architects  of 
Fear")  and  helped  develop  colorless 
raw  material  into  workable  episodes  on 
short  notice — with  the  Stefano  imprint 
handily  in  evidence  on  most  of  them. 


"Joe  and  The  Outer  Limits  were 
made  for  each  other,"  said  Byron 
Haskin,  who  directed  "A  Feasibility 
Study,"  Stefano's  very  ^irst  script  for 
the  show.  "Seventy-five  percent  of  the 
success  of  any  individual  episode  lay  in 
the  developmental  writing  Stefano  put 
into  it."  Stefano  delivered  nine  one- 
hour  scripts  plus  a two-parter  while 
simultaneously  doing  "touch-ups"  and 
filler  scenes  (such  as  the  argument  be- 
tween David  McCallum  and  Robert 
Doyle  in  "The  Sixth  Finger,"  or  the 
prologue  of  "Specimen:  Unknown"), 
massive  front-to-back  rewrites  on  other 
scripts,  and  hatching  original  story 
lines  for  new  scripts.  Amid  this  work 
load  he  also  wrote  two  pilots  for 
CBS — The  Committee  Man,  an  expan- 
sion of  a G.E.  Theatre  script,  and  The 
Haunted,  starring  Martin  Landau  as 
psychic  investigator  Nelson  Orion. 

"The  network  wanted  me  to  write 
six  scripts  the  firet  year  of  Outer  Lim- 
its," said  Stefano.  "I  said  four  and 
would  not  budge.  I did  'Feasibility 
Study,'  'The  Cats,'  'Nightmare,'  and 
maybe  'Small  Wonder.'  Of  course, 
whenever  we  had  to  start  shooting  and 


82  Twilight  Zone 


Left;  Sally  Kellerman  poses  with  "Chill  Charlie,"  a plastic  prop  with  glowing  electric  eyes.  It  was  intended  for  "The  Human  Factor' 
but  never  used.  Right:  Instead,  "The  Human  Factor"  featured  WHIiam  O.  Douglas,  Jr.,  as  the  ghost  of  Private  Gordon. 


didn't  have  a script,  I vrent  home  and 
wrote  one.  Anything  other  than  those 
first  four  scripts  was  done  fast.  I'd  call 
Lou  and  say,  'I've  got  an  idea  for  a 
story,'  and  he'd  say  'wonderful,'  and 
I'd  write  it.  I'd  ususally  get  up  around 
five  a.m.,  see  my  son  tiefore  he  went 
to  school,  and  go  to  the  studio.  We 
were  shooting  at  KTTV  and  Metro, 
and  from  one  to  the  other  is  a long 
drive.  My  assistant,  Tom  Selden,  drove 
while  I'd  sit  with  a typjwriter  on  my 
lap — I wasn't  about,  to  waste  that 
travel  time.  Then  I'd  lock  myself  in  my 
office  and  riot  let  anybody  come  near, 
just  to  finish  a script  that  had  to  go  to 
mimeo  the  next  day  so  we  could  start 
production." 

M typical  Stefano  rewrite  was  "Fun 
and  Games,"  a popular  Outer  Limits 
variation  on  Fredric  Brown's  "Arena" 
themef  Its  genesis  was  a Robert  Specht 
teleplay  titled • "Natural  Selection,"  in 
which  a dispassionate  alien  tests  captive 
humans  for  survival  skills.  It  was 
judged  too  analytical  amJ  plodding,  so 
the  rewrite  changed  the  setting  to  a 
coliseum-style  planet  where,  humans  are 
pitted  against  alien  primitives,  with  the 
home  world  of  each  at  stake.  ("What's 
the  difference  who  sav(?s  the  human 
race?"  cackles  the  alien  games-master. 
"The  dull  fact  is,  it's  been  saved.") 
Writefe  Guild  rules  divided  the  screen 
credit  between  Stefano  tind  Specht.  "I 


never  liked  rewriting,"  said  Stefano. 
"A  script  had  to  be  pretty  good  for  me 
to  want  to  rewrite  it  anyway,  or  it  had 
to  be  a story  I was  crazy  about  and 
didn't  want  to  lose.  Some  I did  huge 
rewrites  on,  with  no  credit  ...  But 
writing  is  so  visceral  that  if  you're 
working  on  someone  else's  gut,  it's  just 
not  as  much  fun." 

A story  treatrrient  by  Ellis  ("The 
Sixth  Finger")  St.  Joseph,  concerning 
sudden  madness  op  a Ringworld-type 
space  colony,  passed  through  the  type- 
writers of  Stefano,  Jvlorheim,  and  four 
other  writers  befor^  emerging  as  "The 
Mutant,"  in  which  a botanist  (literally 
a BEM — bug-eyed  monster)  holds  five 
colonists  hostage  on  an  isolated  pio- 
neer world  with  his  powers  of  tele- 
pathy and  death-by-touch.  A Sonya 
Roberts  script,  "Joy  Ride,"  was  heavily 
revised  by  Morheim  to  include  periodic 
doses  of  1950s-type.  "sci-fi"  action  such 
as  an  obligatory  'meteor  shower  in 
space  and  a hoary  man-sucked-out-the- 
airlock  routine.  The  new -script,  which 
bore  Roberts's  pseudonym,  was  ironi- 
cally titled  "Second  Chance."  Frequent- 
ly Stefano  and  Morheim  would  build 
an  entire  story  around  a fanciful  "bear" 
or  prefabricated  gimmick,  as  with 
"Moonstone,"  which  was  inspired  sole- 
ly by  an  opaqu^  street-lamp  globe 
Stefano  thought  would  make  an  in- 
teresting prop. 


The  concept  of  "tolerable  terror" 
killed  Stefanb's  "The  Cats,"  in  which 
aliens  take  possession  of  the  bodies  of 
househcdd  pets  to  infiltrate  and  invade 
the  earth.  "The  network  felt  that  to 
show  cats  as  frightening  was  danger- 
ous," said  Stefano,  "because  cats  were 
in  the  homes  of  viewers  and  ABC  was 
so  aware  of  the  children  who  tuned  in 
the  show.  I saw  this  as  a valid  criti- 
cism." This  was  one  of  the  rare  times 
Stefano  actually  bowed  to  the  dictates 
of  the  network's  Standards  and  Prac- 
tices department,  whose  subsequent 
protests  regarding  later  scripts  were  not 
so  reasoned  or  logical.  "The  Cats" 
became  the  framework  for  "Corpus 
Earthling,"  scripted  by  Orin  Borsten, 
loosely  based  on  the  Louis  Charbon- 
neau  novel  of  the  same  name  and 
changing  the  mechanism  of  invasion 
from  cats  to  rocks.  The  theme  of  the 
show,  however,  remained  blackly  dis- 
turbing: a normal  man  (Robert  Culp  in 
another  of  his  intense  and  distinctive 
performances)  becomes  paranoid,  and 
his  worst  fears  turn  out  to  be  true.  "It 
hit  me  in  a way  I never  wanted  our 
shows  to  hit  people,"  said  Stefano, 
who  concluded  that  despite  the  soften- 
ing changes  k was  still  frightening,  as 
opposed  to  scan/.  "There  is  a fine  line 
between  the  two."  In  1969,  he  recycled 
the  original  concept  into  a supernatural 
feature  film.  Eye  of  the  Cat. 


Twilight  Zone  83 


Joseph  Stefano  (right)  visits  the  set  of 
“The  Borderiand"  and  finds  Mark 

Richman  v/ith  two  right  hands. 

During  act  two  of  "Corpus  Earth- 
ling," Culp,  gripped  by  high  panic, 
warns  Salome  Jens  not  to  open  her 
apartment  door  when  a strange  bump- 
ing is  heard  outside.  Determined  to 
prove  his  fear  is  all' in  his  head,  she 
peeks  out  and  sighs,  "It's  Billy  Fraker; 
he's  been  drinking  again."  Outer 
Limits'  most  distinctive  cjfiema- 
tographer  was  Conrad  Hall,  whose  as- 
sistant during  the  Daystar  days  was  the 
now  equally  famous  William  A.  Fraker. 
Together  the  pair  helped  give  a distinc- 
tive visual  edge  to  episodes  like  "The 
Man  Who  Was  Never  Bom,"  "The  Bel- 
lero  Shield,"  and  "Forms  of  Things  Un- 
known," but  Fraker  never'  receiyed 
screen  credit  on  The  Outer  Limits.* 
Director  Gerd  Oswald  and  the  "Corpus 
Earthling"  crew  devised  the  sly  in-joke 
to  give  the  dauntless  cameraman  a bit 
of  recognition.  (Borsten's  original 
teleplay  gives  the  name  as  "Bill 
Cogan.") 

Another  of  Stefano's  early  scripts, 
"Small  Wonder,"  was  intended  as  a 
two-parter,  and  the  story  anticipates 
the  film  Fantastic  Voyage  by  some 
three  years.  In  part  one,  a scientist  is 
miniaturized  to  enter  the  brain  of  a 
dictator's  wife  (via  the  ear)  and  elimi- 
nate her  distaste  for  American  politics 
by  manipulating  her  "'hostility  center." 
Stefano  based  his  story  on  studies  done 
at  UCLA  mapping  the  brain  and  ear 
canal.  In  part  two,  the  woman  dies 
with  the  scientist  trapped  inside  her, 
and  he  must  maneuver  his  way  out  of  a 
body  whose  rhythms  are  ceasing.  The 
proposition  was  too  rich  for  even  double 
the  usual  Outer  Limits  budget,  and 
"Small  Wonder"  was  never  produced. 

Other  shows,  however,  illustrated 
just  how  resourceful  the  Daystar  crew 
could  be  when  squeezed  by  time  and 
budget  limitations.  Perhaps  the  best  ex- 

‘Except  in  the  pilot,  "The  Unknown,"  which 
was  never  broadcast. 


ample  of  a no-budget  classic  that  re- 
sulted from  moneybelt-tightening  was 
Stefano's  own  "Nightmare,"  filmed 
back-to-back  with  Meyer  Dolinsky's 
"O.B.l.T."  Although  the  two  shows 
are  unconnected,  the  latter  provides  an 
apt  lead-in  to  Stefano's  blacker  vision. 
Its  epilogue  closed  on  a note  of  hope: 
“Agents  of  the  Justice  Department  are 
rounding  up  the  machines  now."  Stef- 
ano found  such  faith  in  the  govern- 
ment to  be  foolishly  optimistic. 
The  guilty  parties  in  "Nightmare"  are 
not  the  gruesome  alien  Ebonites  but  the 
generals  of  Earth,  who  emotionlessly 
supervise  their  "unreal  game"  as  a psy- 
chological acid  test  for  the  reliability  of 
their  own  troops. 

"It  wasn't  written  out  of  cynicism, 
but  out  of  deep  suspicion,"  said 
Stefano,  who  completed  the  script  one 
week  before  Outer  Limits’  nationwide 
tv  premiere.  "If  you  think  of  that  in 
terms  of  1963  or  '64,  it's  shocking  and 
disturbing.  Now,  of  course,  nobody's 
surprised — it  took  a few  years  for  the 
government  to  prove  I was  right!" 

The  "milky  white,  even  sky"  of 
Ebon  and  its  "flat,  vast,  empty  black 
surface,  slick  and  glassy-hard  as  some 
ebony  gem"  were  simply  and  easily 
filmed  on  a bare  sound  stage  dressed 
with  a few  outcrops  of  plastic  rock. 
Most  of  the  shoestring  budget  was  ap- 
plied toward  casting  solid  character  ac- 
tors who  proved  so  enthusiastic  about 
the  story  that  director  John  Erman*  got 
an  extra  rehearsal  out  of  them  on  a 
Sunday,  despite  a Hollywood  heat 
wave  and  blazingly  hot  lighting  on  the 


*This  was  Erman's  second  assignment  as  di- 
rector for  Daystar  (the  first  was  a Stony 
Burke  episode).  He  replaced  the  original 
choice,  Byron  Haskin,  right  before  shooting 
commenced. 


sets.  Martin  Sheen,  just  in  from  the 
New  York  stage,  would  wait  on  a 
street  comer  for  Erman  to  pick  him  up 
each  morning  for  work.  John  Anderson 
even  had  to  apply  his  own  Ebonite 
makeup  on  the  second  harried  day  of 
shooting  when  makeup  man  Fred 
Phillips  got  a flat  tire  on  the  freeway. 
(Anderson,  Psycho's  used-car  dealer, 
was  cast  in  Outer  Limits — as  were 
Psycho  alumni  Simon  Oakland  and 
Vera  Miles — by  Stefano,  who  had  writ- 
ten the  film's  screenplay.)  Outer  Limits' 
resident  monster-makers,  the  now 
legendary  Projects,  Unlimited  con- 
glomerate, were  also  taxed  by  the 
show's  demand  for  enough  full-head 
masks  and  bat-winged  body  stockings 
to  outfit  several  Ebonites.  Effects  direc- 
tor (and  mask  sculptor)  Wah  Chang 
recalled  it  as  "a  real  rush  job.  We 
worked  into  the  early  morning  hours 
to  get  the  masks  done.  Paul  Petit 
worked  like  a Trojan  on  the  winglike 
portion  of  the  costume  and  could  not 
get  it  right.  As  it  went,  he  had  several 
right  wings  and  no  left  ones!" 

"Corpus  Earthling"  notwithstand- 
ing, "Nightmare"  is  probably  Outer 
Limits'  most  psychologically  violent 
episode.  A high-water  mark  of  the 
show's  capability  for  tension  and 
suspense  is  the  scene  where  Bill  Gunn 
helplessly  gropes  for  words  to  describe 
his  horror  at  seeing  a comrade's  corpse 
with  a gaping  cavity  where  the 
Ebonites  have  removed  the  heart. 
"Nightmare"'  delivers  its  forceful 
messages  without  big  budgets  or 
pyrokinetic  effects,  and  demonstrates 
Stefano's  power  as  a scenairist  while 
proving — ironically — just  how  far  tv 
has  come  since  1963. 

NEXT:  PROJECTS,  UNLIMITfiD  AND 
FRIED  EGG  MONSTERS 


Stefano  with  Tom  Selden  (left)  and  Lou  Morheim  (right)  at  CBS  studios  In  1963. 


84  Twilight  Zone 


Photo  courtesy  Joseph  Stefano 


LIMITS 


“There 

is  nothing  wrong  with  your 
tel(eyi$ion  not  attempt  to  adjust  the  pic- 

turi:  We  are  c ontrolling  transmission.  We  wilt  Bohtrpj 
the  hdnzoptal.  We  wiil  controi  the  vertical.,  )We  ,p|in 
changp  the  focus  to  a soft  blur,  or  sharpen  it  t!|  crys- 
taf  cfarity.  For  the  next  hour,  sit  quietly  and  we  wifN 
controi  all  that  you  see  and  hear.  You  are  about  t^''''%( 
experience  the  awe  and  mystery  which  reache^'X 
'C4rom"the  inner  mind  to  THE  OUTER  LIMITS^!^ 


Brothers's  mental  state,  a tremor  hits 
the  base,  the  machine  shorts  out,  and 
Hamilton's  mind  regains  consciousness 
in  Brothers's  body — and  vice-versa. 
Brothers  sees  another  opportunity  to 
get  at  the  atomic  cartridge  and,  as 
Hamilton,  orders  "Brothers"  locked  up. 
Hamilton's  fiancee  Ingrid  Larkin  gets 
wise  to  the  exchange,  having  melded 
her  mind  with  his  before  the  Brothers 
incident,  and  helps  "Brothers"  escape. 
Brothers,  determined  to  kill  his  old 
body  and  keep  Hamilton's,  bursts  into 
the  lab  and  grapples  with  Hamilton, 
eventually  shooting  him,  but  getting 
knocked  out.  As  Brothers's  body  dies, 
Hamilton  manages  to  switch  their 
minds  back,  and  when  asked  by  Ingrid 
how  he'll  report  the  incident,  he  says, 
"Only  the  truth.  Major  Brothers  shot 
himself." 


CONTINUING  DAVID  J.  SCHOW'S  SEVEN-PART 
SURVEY  OF  THE  SERIES,  COMPLETE  WITH  THE 
WORDS  OF  THE  OELEBRATED  'CONTROL  VOICE.' 


8.  THE  HUMAN  FACTOR 

Broadcast  November  11,  1963 
Written  by  David  Duncan 
Directed  by  Abner  Bib«:rman 
Cast 

Major  Roger  Brothers  (Harry  Guardi- 
no).  Dr.  James  Hamilton  (Gary 
Merrill),  Colonel  William  Campbell 
(Joe  de  Santis),  Major  Harold  Giles 
(Ivan  Dixon),  Ingrid  Larkin  (Sally 
Kellerman),  Dr.  Soldini  (Shirley 
O'Hara),  Orderly  (James  B.  Sikking), 
Peterson  (John  Newton),  Sergeant  (Art 
Alisi),  Nurse  (Jane  l!,angley).  Pvt. 
Gordon/Ice  Ghost  (William  O. 
Douglas,  Jr.),  Sentry  (Matty 
Jordan— also  Merrill's  stunt  double). 
Stunt  Brothers  (Dave  Pema) 


“In  northern  Greenland,  the  mountains 
stand  like  a wall  along  Victoria 


Gary  Merrill  and  Sally  Kellerman. 


Channel,  whose  straight  course  marks 
the  line  of  the  Great  Baffin  fault.  Until 
recently,  not  even  the  Eskimos 
ventured  into  this  Arctic  waste,  but 
today,  as  in  other  lonely  places  of  the 
world,  the  land  is  dominated  by  those 
instruments  of  detection  which  stand  as 
a grim  reminder  of  man's  fear  of  man. 
This  is  Point  TABU,  a name  given  this 
predominantly  underground  base  by  a 
young  officer  who  explained  that  the 
letters  in  TABU  stood  for  ‘Total  Aban- 
donment of  Better  Understanding.' 
Some  two  hundred  men  and  a few 
women  make  this  their  permanent 
residence.  Their  task  is  to  maintain  a 
constant  alert  against  enemy  attack, 
and  be  prepared  to  respond  to  it 
devastatingly  ..." 

In  his  lab  at  the  remote  base, 
psychiatrist  Hamilton  has  devised  a 
diagnostic  apparatus  that  allows  two 
minds  to  link  and  share  thoughts.  Sent 
to  him  as  a patient  is  Major  Brothers, 
whose  most  recent  crazy  behavior  has 
been  an  attempt  to  blow  up  the  Hecla 
Isthmus  with  the  base's  atomic 
cartridge.  It  seems  that  Brothers  has  al- 
lowed a member  of  an  exploratory 
party  to  die  in  the  Isthmus;  haunted  by 
the  accusing  specter  of  the  dead  man. 
Brothers  believes  it  to  be  a "monster" 
intent  on  destroying  the  base,  and 
wants  to  eliminate  it  with  the  bomb. 
When  Hamilton  wires  himself  and 
Brothers  to  the  machine  to  lay  bare 


"A  weapon?  No,  only  an  instrument, 
neither  good  nor  evil  until  men  put  it 
to  use.  And  then,  like  so  many  of 
man's  inventions,  it  can  be  used  either 
to  save  lives  or  destroy  them,  to  make 
men  sane  or  to  drive  them  mad,  to  in- 
crease human  understanding  or  to  be- 
tray it.  But  it  will  be  men  who  make 
the  choice.  By  itself  the  instrument  is 
nothing  until  you  add  ...  the  human 
factor. " 


9.  CORPUS  EARTHLING  

Broadcast  November  18,  1963 
Written  by  Orin  Borsten 
Based  on  Louis  Charbonneau's  novel. 
Corpus  Earthling,  and  an  unpro- 
duced Stefano  script,  "The  Cats" 
Directed  by  Gerd  Oswald 


Salome  Jens  with  parasitic  rocks: 


before  . , . and  after 


Twilight  Zone  85 


Cast 

Dr.  Paul  Cameron  (Robert  Culp), 
Laurie  Hendricks-Camerbn  (Salome 
Jens),  Dr.  Jonas  Temple  (Barry 
Atwater),  Ralph  .(David  Garner),  • 
Caretaker  (Ken  Renard) 

"Rocks.  Silent,  inanimate  objects  tom 
from  the  earth's  ancient  crust.  Yielding 
up  to  man,  over  the  long  centuries,  all 
that  is  known  of  the  planet  on  which 
we  live.  Withholding' from  man  forever 
their  veiled  secrets  of  the  nature  of 
matter  and  cosmic  catastrophe,  the  se- 
crets of  other  worlds  in  the  vastness  of 


the  universe,  of  other  forms  of  life  . . . 
of  strange  organisms  beyond  the  im- 
agination of  man." 

Two  of  the  rock  samples  in  Temple's 
lab  are  alien  invaders,  and  Cameron 
finds  himself  an  unwilling  eavesdrop- 
per on  their  telepathic  communication, 
thanks  to  a metal  plate  in  his  skull. 
Aware  of  the  "listener,"  the  aliens  gent- 
ly suggest  he  kill  himself.  Cameron  is 
kept  from  jumping  out  a window  by 
Temple  and  Laurie,  but  fears  for  his 
sanity  since  no  one  else  can  hear  the 
* voices  in  his  head.  Cameroif  and 
Laurie  head  for  Mexico  and  a few 
days'  rest;  in  the  lab,  the  rocks 
metamorphose  into  spiderlike  parasites 
that  possess  Temple  and  send  him 
robotically  in  pursuit.  Temple  catches 
Laurie  in  a‘  secluded  cabin  hideaway 
and  forces  the  second  parasite  on  her. 
When  Cameron  returns,  he  finds  her 
waiting  in  bed  for  him — pasty  white, 
with  hollowed  eye  sockets,  telling  the 
"listener"  to  come  closer.  He  flees,  hol- 
ing up  in  a Tijuana  hotel  until  the 
Caretaker  summons  him  back  to  the 
cabin.  The  alien  presence  has  made 
Laurie  deathly  ill,  and  Temple  is  wait- 
ing in  ambush.  Cameron  stabs  Temple 
to  death  in  a fight  and  his  corpse 
evacuates  the  parasite;  Laurie  then  tries 
to  kill  Cameron  and  he  reluctanty 
shoots  her.  He  tips  an  oil  stove  over 
onto  the  two  creatures  and  burns  them 
to  cinders  along  with  the  cabin. 

"Two  black  crystalline  rocks.  Unclassi- 
fiable.  Objects  on  the  border  between 
the  living  and  the  non-living.  A re- 
minder of  the  thin  line  that  separates 
the  animate  from  the  inanimate.  Some- 
thing to  ponder  on.  Something  to  stay 
the  hand  when  it  reaches  out  innocent- 
ly for  the  whitened  pebble,  the  veined 
stone,  the  dead,  unmoving  rocks  of 
our  planet." 


Broadcast  December  2,  1963 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano 
Originally  titled  "Ebon  Struck  First" 


Martin  Sheen  (at  bottom),  Ed  Nelson, 
and  John  Anderson  as  Ebonite 

Directed  by  John  Erman 
Cast 

Col.  Luke  Stone  (Ed  Nelson),  Major 
Jong  (James  Shigeta),  Interrogator 
(John  Anderson),  Pvt.  Arthur  Dix 
(Martin  Sheen),  Lt.  James  P.  Willow- 
more  (Bill  Gunn),  Capt.  Terrence 
Ralph  Brookman  (David  Frankham), 
Lt.  Esra  Krug  (Bernard  Kates),  Gen. 
Benton  (Ben  Wright),  Commanding 
General  (Whit  Bissell),  Chief  of  Staff 
(William  Sage),  Dix's  Mother  (Lillian 
Adams),  Krug's  Grandfather  (Sasha 
Harden),  Krug's  Governess  (Lisa 
Mann),  Dr.  Whorf  (Martin  Brandt), 
Ebonite  Guard  (Paul  Stader) 

"A  war  between  worlds  has  long  been 
dreaded.  Throughout  recent  history, 
man — convinced  that  life  on  other 
planets  would  be  as  anxious  and  belli- 
gerent as  life  on  his  own — has  gravely 
predicted  that  some  dreadful  form  of 
combat  would  inevitably  take  place 
between  our  world  and  that  of  some- 
one else.  And  man  was  right.  To  the 
eternal  credit  of  the  peoples  of  this 
planet  Earth,  history  shall  be  able  to 
proclaim  loudly  and  justly  that  in  this 
war  between  Unified  Earth  and  the 
planet  Ebon  . . . Ebon  struck  first. 
Ebon — its  form  of  life  unknown,  its 
way  of  life  unpredictable.  To  the  fight- 
ing troops  of  Earth,  a black  question 
mark  at  the  end  of  a dark,  foreboding 
journey.  " 

Stone's  multinational  six-man  strike 
force  is  captured  by  the  Ebonites, 
Satanic,  gargoylelike  aliens  "who 
employ  wands  that  can  manipulate  the 
human  senses.  "Exploratory  interviews" 
proceed.  The  first  soldier  to  be  grilled 
by  the  Ebonite  known  as  the  Inter- 
rogator is  the  fanatically  all-American 
Dix,  who  is  rendered  mute  and  led 
away,  but  returns  with  his  voice 
restored.  The  group  wonders  how 
much  he's  revealed.  Willowmore,  a 
black  officer,  is  casually  blinded,  and 
Krug,  a German,  is  softened  up  with  a 
hallucination  of  his  Jewish  grandfather 


whom  he  betrayed  to  the  Nazis.  He 
never  returns.  Brookman,  a straitlaeed 
Britisher,  is  questioned  in  the  presence 
of  an  officer  who  knew  his  father — and 
who  may  or  may  not  be  another  hallu- 
cination. Willov/more  returns  from  his 
session  in  shock.  He  asked  for  his  sight 
back,  and  got  it  on  the  condition  that 
he  view  the  corpse  of  Kmg,  who  died 
during  interrogation,  only  to  see  the 
gaping  hole  where  the  Ebonites  had 
removed  Krug's  heart.  Stone  "sleeps" 
through  his  own  interview.  Jong,  a 
Chinese  more  emotionally  resilient 
than  the  rest,  has  the  bones  of  his  right 
arm  pulverized  by  an  Ebonite  control 
rod  and  blacks  out.  After  Jong's  ses- 
sion the  group  is  allowed  basic 
necessities  and  "the  respect  due  a con- 
quered enemy";  the  group's  consensus 
is  that  Jong  has  turned  traitor.  Stone 
insists  there  be  no  leniency  for  traitors. 
Straws  are  drawn  and  Brookman  is 
assigned  to  execute  Jong  by  strangula- 
tion. When  Brookman  cannot  bring 
himself  to  kill,  Jong  illustrates  that 
they  all  had  motives  for  talking,  and 
Dix  breaks  down,  revealing  that  he 
confided  secrets  to  a hallucination  of 
his  own  mother.  He  cuts  and  runs 
from  the  compound,  raving  incoherent- 
ly. The  Interrogiator  conducts  Stone  to 
a cubicle  where  they  encounter  an 
Earth  commander  and  his  Chief  of 
Staff,  who  confess  that  Ebon's  attack 
on  Earth  was  accidental,  and  to  make 
amends  Ebon  agreed  to  continue  the 
phony  "war"  to  provide  the  generals 
with  a test  scenario  to  determine  how 
Earth  troops  w(3uld  "behave  or  misbe- 
have" in  actual  conflict.  Affronted  by 
the  immorality  of  the  game,  the 
Ebonite  refuses  to  sanction  it,  to  pre- 
vent further  harm  to  Stone's  crew 
(Krug  died  of  a coronary  and  the 
Ebonites  fought  to  save  him,  but 
failed).  When  the  Interrogator  returns 
to  the  compound  to.  expose  the 
charade,  he  is  jumped  by  Willowmore, 
Brookman,  and  Jong.  Stone  breaks 
from  the  cubicle  with  the  generals  in 
pursuit  and  orders  his  men  to  release 
the  alien.  The  Chief  of  Staff  backs  up 
Stone's  command  with  a pistol,  but  the 
men  no  longer  believe  the  evidence  of 
their  own  eyes.  There  is  a scuffle; 
Brookman  grabs  the  gun  and  shoots 
the  Chief,  who  dies  on  the  floor.  The 
horrible  truth  dawns  on  Brookman, 
who  earlier  could  not  bring  himself  to 
murder  a fellow  human.  "I  thought  he 
was — " 

"He  wasn't,"  says  Stone  grimly. 
"He  was  real." 

"The  exploration  of  human  behavior 
under  simulated  conditions  of  stress  is 
a commonplace  component  of  the 


86  Twilight  Zone 


B 


machinery  called  War.  So  long  as  man 
anticipates  and  prepares  for  combat,  be 
it  with  neighboring  nations  or  with  our 
neighbors  in  space,  these  unreal  games 
must  be  played.  And  there  are  only 
real  men  to  play  them.  According  to 
established  military  procedure,  the 
results  of  the  Ebon  maneuvers  will  be 
recorded  in  books  and  fed  into  com- 
puters for  the  edification  and  enlighten- 
ment of  all  the  strategists  of  the  future. 
Perhaps  they  will  learn  something." 


11.  IT  CRAWLED  OUT 

OF  THE  WOODWORK 

Broadcast  December  9,  1963 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano 
Directed  by  Gerd  Oswald 
Cast 

Jory  Peters  (Scott  Marlowe),  Prof. 
Stuart  Peters  (Michael  Forest),  Dr. 
Block  (Kent  Smith),  Gaby  Christian 
(Barbara  Luna),  Det.  Sgt.  Thomas 
'Siroleo  (Ed  Asner),  Prof.  Stephanie 
Linden  (Joan  Lamden),  V/arren  Edgar 
Morley  (Gene  Darfler),  New  Sentry 
(Ted  DeCorsia),  Coroner  (Tom 
Palmer),  Cleaning  Lady  (I.ea  Manner), 
NORCO  Intercom  Voice  (Robert 
Johnson) 

"His  name  is  Warren  Edgar  Morley.  For 
the  past  six  months  he  has  guarded  this 
gate  from  eight  in  the  morning  until  six 
at  night— at  which  time  he  is  replaced 
by  another,  just  like  himself.  These  are 
the  last  few  moments  of  his  life. " 

With  his  younger  brother  Jory  in  tow, 
physicist  Stuart  Peters  arrives  at 
NORCO,  an  energy  research  facility 
headed  by  Block.  Here,  earlier,  a black 
dustlike  glob  has  been  accidentally 
drawn  into  a vacuum  cleaner's  motor, 
thus  gaining  electrical  "life"  and  ampli- 
fying itself  into  a chaotic,  energy- 


Director  Gerd  Oswald  (third  from  left) 
sets  up  shot  through  gates  of  NORCO 


sucking  vortex  that  Block  keeps  penned 
up  in  a chamber  called  the  Pit.  He  uses 
the  force  to  terrify  NORCO's  staff  to 
death,  then  reanimates  them  with  spe- 
cial pacemaker  units  so  they  may  re- 
search new  ways  to  create  energy  to 
feed  the  vortex.  The  next  time  Jory  sees 
Stuart,  he's  strapped  to  a new  pace- 
maker—which  accidentally  shorts  out. 
The  detective  investigating  Jory's  death 
uncovers  NORCO's  deadly  secret  with 
the  heLp  of  Prof.  Linden,  who  shoots 
Block.  As  he  dies.  Block  unleashes  the 
vortex  from  the  Pit.  Linden  advises  that 
a local  blackout  will  force  the  thing 
back  into  the  Pit,  which  has  self- 
contained  generators.  The  plan  works, 
but  not  before  all  the  NORCO  zombies 
die,  the  energy  leached  from  their 
pacemakers.  "It's  under  control,"  the 
detective  reports.  "For  the  moment  ..." 

"The  Conservation  of  Energy  Law — a 
principle  which  states  that  energy  can 
be  changed  in  form  but  that  it  cannot 
be  either  created  or  destroyed.  And 
this  is  true  of  all  energy — the  energy  of 
genius,  of  madness,  of  the  heart,  of  the 
atom.  And  so  it  must  be  lived  with.  It 
must  be  controlled,  channeled  for 
good,  held  isolated  from  evil  . . . and 
somehow  lived  with  peaceably." 

12.  thI  borderl'and 

Broadcast  December  16,  1963 
Written  and  directed  by  Leslie  Stevens 
Cast 

Ian  Frazer  (Mark  Richman),  Eva  Frazer 
(Nina  Foch),  Mrs.  Palmer  (Gladys 
Cooper),  Edgar  Price  (Alfred  Ryder), 
Lincoln  Russel  (Phillip  Abbott),  Dwight 
Hartley  (Barry  Jones),  Benson  Sawyer 
(Gene  Raymond),  Dr.  Sung  (Noel 
deSousa);  with  Vic  Perrin 

"The  mind  of  man  has  always  longed  to 
know  what  lies  beyond  the  world  we 
live  in.  Explorers  have  ventured  into  the 
deeps  and  the  heights.  Of  these  ex- 
plorers, some  are  scientists,  some  are 
mystics;  each  is  driven  by  a different 
purpose.  The  one  thing  they  share  in 
common  is  a wish  to  cross  the  bor- 
derlands that  lie  beyond  the  Outer 
Limits  ..." 

During  a seance  supposed  to  make 
spiritual  contact  with  the  dead  son  of 
industrialist  Hartley,  attending  physi- 
cists Russel  and  Frazer  expose  the  me- 
dium as  a fake  and  offer  the  grieving 
man  an  alternate  path  to  the  afterlife, 
without  guarantees;  Frazer's  left  hand 
was  recently  trapped  in  an  electrical 
field  during  an  experiment  in  polarity 
reversal,  and  the  two  perfect  right 
hands  he  shows  Hartley  convince  the 


Mark  Richman  exposes  phony  "wraith" 
for  Nina  Foch. 


magnate  to  fund  a larger-scale  attempt 
to  pry  open  the  doorway  to  the  alter- 
nate dimension  that  Frazer  glimpsed 
...  i/  an  attempt  to  contact  the  dead 
boy  is  included.  Just  as  Frazer  steps  on- 
to the  energy  platform,  the  medium's 
vindictive  henchman.  Price,  sabotages 
the  experiment.  He  is  electrocuted,  the 
breakers  blow,  and  Frazer  is  caught  be- 
tween two  dimensions.  Eva,  his  wife, 
blacks  out  the  city  to  draw  enough 
power  to  bring  him  back,  and  when 
his  newly  reversed,  normal  right  hand 
reaches  through  the  "ionic  rain"  ob- 
scuring the  platform,  she  grabs  it. 
Hartley  chooses  that  moment  to  jump 
into  the  field,  calling  for  his  son,  and 
as  he  bums  out  and  vanishes,  Frazer 
reappears  unharmed. 

"There  arc  worlds  beyond  and  worlds 
within  which  the  explorer  must  ex- 
plore. But  there  is  one  power  which 
seems  to  transcend  space  and  time,  life 
and  death.  It  is  a deeply  human  power 
which  holds  us  safe  and  together  when 
all  other  forces  combine  to  tear  us 
apart.  We  call  it  the  power  of  love." 


13.  TOURIST  ATTRACTION 

Broadcast  December  23,  1963 
Written  by  Dean  Reisner 
Directed  by  Laslo  Benedek 
Cast 

John  Dexter  (Ralph  Meeker),  Lynn 
Arthur  (Janet  Blair),  Tom  Evans  (Jerry 
Douglas),  Prof.  Arivello  (Jay  Novello), 
Gen.  Juan  Mercurio  (Henry  Silva), 
Reporter  (William  Sage),  2nd  Reporter 
(Edward  Colmens),  Dexter's  aide  (John 
Silo),  Mercurio's  aide  (Francis  Ravel), 
Skipper  (Stuart  Lancaster),  Paco 
(Martin  Garrelega),  Mario  (Henry 
Elelgado),  "Ichthyosaurus  Mercurius" 
(Roger  Stem);  with  Noel  deSousa, 
Marco  Antonio,  Shelley  Morrison 

"In  man's  dark  and  troubled  history 
there  are  vestiges  of  strange  gods.  This 


Twilight  Zone  87 


stone  statue  was  once  such  a god,  a 
thousand  years  gone  by,  in  the  central 
mounts  of  Pan  America.  Today,  new 
gods  have  emerged — the  god  of  power, 
the  god  of  money.  The  republic  of  San 
Bias  lies  west  of  the  Orinoco  Basin, 
slightly  north  of  the  Equator.  Its  prin- 
cipal exports  are  coffee,  copra,  mahog- 
any, mace,  and  saffron.  In  a hundred- 
odd  years  the  reins  of  government 
have  changed  many  times  in  blood  and 
fire  and  death.  The  last  of  these  revo- 
lutions was  led  by  General  Juan  Mer- 
curio,  the  most  absolute  and  powerful 
ruler  of  them  all.  Only  the  Indians 
who  live  close  to  old  gods  in  the 
volcanic  uplands  are  unimpressed. 
They  have  seen  the  coming  of  conquis- 
tadors with  the  power  of  their  guns 
and  flashing  flags;  the  revolutionaries 
with  their  zeal  and  willingness  to  die; 
the  Americans,  with  the  power  of  their 
money  and  bulldozers,  with  their  sum- 
mer houseboats  in  the  crater  lake  of 
Aripana,  with  their  gadgets  and 
machines  and  devices  ..." 


Meeker  On  trunks)  supervises 
capture  of  Ichthyosaurus  Mercurius 


Corporate  mercenary  Dexter  captures 
an  enormous  amphibian  in  the  coastal 
waters  of  San  Bias,  one  that  resembles 
the  ancient  stone  carvings  of  reptilian 
gods.  His  plans  to  ship  it  back  to  the 
U.S.  for  scientific  study  are  countered 
by  Mercurio,  a Castro-like  dictator 
who  wants  to  exhibit  the  creature 
(which  he  promptly  christens  Ichthyo- 
saurus Mercurius)  in  his  World's  Fair 
to  draw  tourist  trade.  He  puts  the  crea- 
ture on  ice,  under  guard,  but  an  acci- 
dent allows  it  to  thaw  out  and  escape. 
Upon  its  recapture.  Prof.  Arivello  re- 
veals that  it  used  ultrasonics  to  disin- 
tegrate the  iron  of  the  freezer  door, 
and  that  it  is  now  broadcasting  similar 


soundwaves  as  an  SOS  to  its  own 
kind.  When  Dexter  tries  to  sneak  the 
creature  out  of  San  Bias,  the  beasts  rise 
'like  an  army  from  a nearby  lake  to  re- 
claim their  lost  comrade.  The  sight 
paralyzes  Dexter  with  fright,  but  he 
lets  the  captive  one  go  free.  The  crea- 
tures then  destroy  Mercurio  Dam  with 
ultrasonics,  flooding  San  Bias.  Mercur- 
io's  corpse  is  among  those  carted 
away.  Having  survived,  Dexter's  new- 
found fear  and  humility  allow  him  to 
reach  a reconciliation  with  his  es- 
tranged mistress,  Lynn  Arthur. 

"The  forces  of  nature  will  not  submit 
to  injustice.  No  man  has  the  right,  nor 
will  the  checks  and  balances  of  the  uni- 
verse permit  him,  to  place  his  fellows 
under  the  harsh  yoke  of  oppression. 
Nor  may  he  again  place  the  forces  of 
nature  under  the  triple  yoke  of  vanity, 
greed,  and  ambition.  In  the  words  of 
Shelley,  'Here  lies  your  tyrant,  who 
would  rule  the  world  immortal.'  " 


14.  THE  ZANTI  MISFITS 

Broadcast  December  30,  1963 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano 
Directed  by  Leonard  Horn 
Zantis  designed  by  Wah  Chang; 

animated  by  A1  Hamm 
Cast 

Prof.  Stephen  Grave  (Michael  Tolan), 
Gen.  Maximilian  R.  Hart  (Robert  F. 
Simon),  Maj.  Roger  Hill  (Claude 
Woolman),  Ben  Garth  (Bruce  Dem), 
Lisa  Lawrence  (Olive  Deering), 
Communications  Operator  (Lex 
Johnson),  Radar  Operator  (Joey  Tata), 
Computer  Technician  (George  Sims), 
Air  Police  Sergeant  (Mike  Mikler), 
Corporal  Delano  (Bill  Hart),  Radio 
Newscaster  (Robert  Johnson),  Zanti 
Voices  (John  Elizalde  and  Vic  Perrin) 

"Throughout  history  compassionate 
minds  have  pondered  this  dark  and 
disturbing  question:  What  is  society  to 
do  with  those  members  who  are  a 
threat  to  society,  those  malcontents 
and  misfits  whose  behavior  undermines 
and  destroys  the  foundations  of  civili- 
zation? Different  ages  have  found  dif- 
ferent answers.  Misfits  have  been 
burned,  branded,  and  banished.  To- 
day, on  this  planet  Earth,  the  criminal 
is  incarcerated  in  humane  institutions, 
or  he  is  executed.  Other  planets  use 
other  methods.  This  is  the  story  of 
how  the  perfectionist  rulers  of  the 
planet  Zanti  attempted  to  solve  the 
problem  of  the  Zanti  Misfits." 

Grave,  a historian,  arrives  at  a Califor- 
nian ghost  town  called  Morgue  to 
document  the  arrival  of  a penal  ship 


‘Lanz  trinsini  lobo  zan  a mang  sll 


lanz  obi"  (Total  destruction  to  anyone 
who  invades  our  prlvacyl) 

from  the  planet  Zanti,  whose  rulers, 
incapable  of  executing  their  own  spe- 
cies, have  struck  a coercive  deal  with 
Earth  allowing  the  exile  of  their  crim- 
inals to  our  world.  The  Zantis  have 
threatened  "total  armihilation"  to  any- 
one disturbing  their  cordoned-off  tract 
of  desert,  but  have  not  anticipated  the 
intrusion  of  rich,  haughty  Lisa  Lawrence 
and  her  psychopathic  paramour,  Ben 
Garth,  who  run  down  a checkpoint 
guard  and  trespass  into  the  restricted 
area.  Garth  disi:overs  the  Zanti  ship 
and  is  killed  by  the  regent  of  prisoners, 
a repulsive  antlilce  alien  (with  a malign 
humanoid  face)  who  then  pursues  Lisa. 
Grave  arrives  at  the  site  to  keep  the 
peace  and  winds  up  smashing  the  re- 
gent with  a boulder.  The  Zanti  pris- 
oners commandf«r  the  ship  and  attack 
the  Earth  base  set  up  in  an  abandoned 
Morgue  hotel.  A firefight  with  rifles 
and  grenades  ensues,  from  which  the 
Earth  soldiers  emerge  victorious.  Gen. 
Hart  grimly  wonders  how  the  Zanti 
government  will  retaliate,  and  a new 
transmission  comes  in  from  that 
pJanet's  Commiinder;  "We  knew  that 
you  could  not  live  with  such  aliens  in 
your  midst.  It  was  always  ouri  inten- 
tion that  you  destroy  them  . . . We 
chose  your  planet  for  that  purpose.  We 
are  incapable  of  executing  our  own 
species,  but  yOu  are  not.  You  are  prac- 
ticed executioneis.  We  thank  you." 

"Throughout  history,  various  societies 
have  tried  various  methods  of  exter- 
minating those  members  who  have 
proven  their  inability  or  unwillingness 
to  live  sanely  among  their  fellow  men. 
The  Zantis  tried  merely  one  more 
method,  neither  better  nor  worse  than 
all  the  others.  Neither  more  human  nor 
less  human  than  all  the  others.  Perhaps 
merely  . . . nonhuman."  IB 


88  Twilight  Zone 


BEYOND  THE  ZONE . . . 


The.  Way-Out  World  of  Feggo 


Twilight  Zone  89 


Photos  courtesy  the  Serling  Archives,  Ithaca  College  School  of  Comunications.  by  PJ.  Wacker-Hoeflin 


Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong 

by  Rod  Serling 


THE  ORIGINAL 
TELEVISION  SCRIPT 
FIRST  AIRED  ON  CBS-TV 
FEBRUARY  3, 1961 


5 


B 


c: 


o 


Cast 


Luther  Dingle 

....  Burgess  Meredith 

Bettor 

Don  Rickies 

O'Toole 

. . . James  Westerlleld 

Callahan 

Edward  Ryder 

1st  Martian 

Douglas  Spencer 

2nd  Martian 

Michael  Fox 

Abernathy 

James  MUlhoUln 

Boy 

Joy  Hector 

1st  Venusian 

Donald  Losby 

2nd  Venusian  . . . 

Greg  Irvin 

1st  Man 

Phil  Arnold 

2nd  Man 

Douglas  Evans 

3rd  Mon 

Frank  Richards 

Nurse 

Jo  Ann  Dixon 

Photographer . . . 

Bob  Duggan 

ACT  ONE 

FADE  ON, 

L STANDARD  OPENING 

With  human  eye  changing  into 
setting  sun.  PAN  DOWN  TO 
OPENING  SCENE  OF  PLAY. 

2.  INT.  SMALL  BAR  DAT 
FULL  SHOT  THE  ROOM 

It's  a typical  small  diinkery,  simple 
and  unprepossessing,  and  at  this 
moment  catering  to  that 
unsophisticated  pre-cocktoil  group 
with  whom  drinking  is  a serious 
business,  undisiurbed  and 
uncoEnplicated  by  the  social 
Mvolities  of  the  five-thirty  crowd 
whose  alcohol  is  port  of  a master 
plan  of  either  business  contacts  or 
gentle  seduction  CAMERA  PANS 
AROUND  THE  ROOM  taking  in 
shots  of  the  four  people  who 


grace  the  area  Over  each  one 
we  hear  Serlinjj's  Voice  in 
narration  PAN  SHOT  OVER  TO  THE 
BARTENDER  a hulking  Tony 
Galento  type  who  makes  lousy 
cocktails,  but  kcseps  on  excellent 
peace. 

SERLING'S  V0IC:E 

Uniquely  American  institution 
known  as  the  neighborhood 
bar  ReadinQi  left  to  right  are  Mr 
Anthony  O'Toole,  proprietor 
who  waters  his  drinks  like 
geraniums,  but  who  stands 
foursquare  for  peace  and  quiet 
and  booths  for  ladies. 

PAN  SHOT  OVER  TO  CUSTOMER 
ONE  a florid-faced  Dodger  fan 
engaged  in  highly  physical 
pantomime  with  another 
customer  a few  stools  down 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

This  is  Mr.  Joseph  J.  Callahan 


90  Twilight  Zone 


an  unregistered  bookie  whose 
entire  lite  is  any  sporting  event 
with  two  sides  and  a set  of 
odds.  His  idea  ot  a meeting  at 
the  summit  is  any  dialogue 
between  a catcher  and  a 
pitcher  with  more  than  one 
man  on  base. 

PAN  SHOT  OVER  TO  CUSTOMER 
TWO,  who  at  this  moment  is 
waggling  a finger  in  Ivir. 

Callahan's  face. 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

And  this  animated  citizen  is 
every  anonymous  bettor  who 
ever  dropped  rent  money  on  a 
horse  race,  a prize  fight,  or  a 
floating  crap  game,  and  who 
took  out  his  frustrations  and  his 
insolvency  on  any  vulnerable 
fellow  bar  stool  companion 
within  arm's  and  fist's  reach. 

The  CAMERA  WHIP  P/\NS  OVER 
TO  A MED.  CLOSE  SHOT  OF  LUTHER 
DINGLE.  This  is  a spindle-framed 
Franklin  Pangbom-ish  type  of  little 
guy  who  sits  there  drinking,  barely 
listening  to  the  conversation. 
Alongside  of  him  is  a vacuum 
cleaner  with  all  kinds  of 
attachments  and  odd. 
impedimenta. 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

And  this  is  Mr.  Luther  Dingle,  a 
vacuum  cleaner  salesmaa 
whose  volume  of  tusiness  is 
roughly  that  of  a wnlet  at  a 
hobo  convention.  He  is  a 
consummate  failure  in  almost 
everything,  but  is  a good 
listener  and  has  a prominent 
jaw. 

3.  DIFFEliENT  AN(3LE 

TAKING  ALL  OF  THEM  IN 
VIEW 

Dingle  listens  from  one  to  the  other 
as  the  argument  ensues. 

BETTOR 

Don't  gimme  that,  Callahan!  I 
told  yuh  before— I don't  pay  off 
on  a bum  call! 

CALLAHAN 

(through  a semi-toothless  mouth) 
Tree  umpires  called  him  out  I 
called  him  out.  Eleven 
thousand  fans  callSJd  him  out. 
Final  score  Pittsburgh  three. 
Dodgers  nothin'.  You  and  me 


got  an  even  bet.  I got  the 
Pirates— hence  you  owe  me 
five  bucks. 

4.  CLOSE  SHOT  BETTOR 

His  face  a white  fury  os  he  gets  off 
the  stool  and  advances  on 
Callahan. 

BETTOR 

I know  a bum  call  when  I see 
one.  That  ball  was  foul  when  it 
hit  'im.  So  instead  of  an  out— it 
was  a foul  ball.  So  who's  to  soy 
he  wouldn't've  got  on  base  so 
that  when  Pignotano  hit  the 
single— a run  would  have 
scored— and  like  that!  And 
furthermore,  Callahaa  you're  a 
cheatin'  insult  to  the  American 
bookie. 

CALLAHAN 
(rises  pugnaciously) 

I'm  gonna  give  you  five 
seconds  to  take  back  that 
innuendo. 

BARTENDER 

(slams  a big  ham  fist  down  on  the 
bar  menacingly) 

Collahaa  I told  you  once 
before  awready.  You  start  a 
brawl  in  here  again  and  I'll  fix 
that  mouth  of  yours  so  you'll  be 
doin'  your  drinkin'  through  a 
tube  stuck  in  a vein. 

CALLAHAN 

(with  a gesture  of  badly  injured 
innocence) 

Me?  I give  you  trouble? 

(he  points  to  the  bettor) 

Tell  it  to  the  number-one 
welsher  of  all  the  western  states 
over  here.  This  guy  still  owes 
me  money  on  the  second 
Dempsey-Tunney  fight. 

BETTOR 

(shouting  over  him) 

Yeah,  yeah,  yeah— mainly  on 
account  of  that  was  a bum  call 
and  I don't  pay  off  on  bum 
caUs. 

(he  turns  to  Dingle) 

You  remember  that  fight. 
Tunney's  out  of  the  ring  and  a 
ref  gives  him  a long  count  like 
everybody  in  the  room  coulda 
gone  out  for  a beer  engaged 
in  some  small  talk,  and  then 
come  back  and  still  sit  down 
before  the  ref  is  finished  ' 
counting.  Now  how  about  that? 


I'm  askin'  you— you— how 
about  that? 

5.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

As  he  points  to  himself. 

DINGLE 

Me? 

6.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
THE  GROUP 

As  the  bettor  walks  over  to  Dingle. 
BETTOR 

You.  Yeah,  you.  You  talk  about 
bum  calls.  You  see  the  game 
on  television  last*  night?  Ninth 
inning?  Snider's  up  with  two 
down  and  we  got  Howard  and 
Moon  on  first  and  second  and 
this  umpire  with  no  pupils  in  hs 
eyes  calls  a foul  ball  an  out? 
You  see  that? 

DINGLE 

Well  os  a matter  of  fact ...  I did 
watch  the  game  on  television, 
(to  the  bartender  smiling)  ( 
Exceptional  defensive  ploy. 
Exceptional.  Abner  Doubleday 
would  have  been  proud. 

BETTOR 

Never  mind  Abner  Doubleday. 

I lecLve  it  up  to  you.  Was  that  a 
foul  ball  or  was  that  an  out? 

DINGLE 

Well  it  appeared  to  me  that  the 
ball  was  hit  in  safe  territory— 
consequently  upon  striking  the 
ground  and  then  hitting  the 
batter  the  rules  would  very 
plainly  indicate  that  the  batter 
was  out— 

BETTOR 

You  realize,  of  course,  pal  that 
you're  calling  me  a liar.  Now  I 
ain't  an  unreasonable  maa  so 
I'll  give  you  one  more  chance. 
Was  that  a foul  or  was  it  an 
out? 

7.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

DINGLE 

Well  it's  my  considered 
opinion— 

A fist  comes  into  the  frame  to  land 
on  Dingle's  jaw. 

8.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 

As  he  catapults  over  the  bar  to 
land  next  to  the  bartender.  The 


Twilight  Zone  91 


Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong 


baitender  very  easily  picks  him 
up  by  the  back,  cradles  him  in  hs 
arms  and  carries  him  around 
placing  him  back  on  a stool  The 
bartender  waggles  a finger  to  the 
bettor. 

BARTENDER 

How's  come  you  always  got  to 
hit  Dingle?  You  hit  him  last 
week,  you  hit  him  the  week 
before. 

BETTOR 

A man  con  only  stand  so 
much.  I'm  tired  of  this  guy 
contradictin'  me!  And  when 
somebody  calls  me  a liar— 
there's  my  honor  to  consider. 

CALLAHAN 

Your  honor?  Why  you've  got 
nothin'  but  larceny  in  you  all 
the  way  from  your  arches  to 
where  you  part  your  hair. 

When  you  die  they're  gonna 
* have  to  screw  you  into  th^ 
grouridi 

BETTOR 

(grabs  a now  glazed  and 
benumbed  Dingle) 

How  about  that!  Is  that  true?  Tm 
crooked?  I leave  it  to  you, 
buddy.  Am  I crooked? 

DINGLE 

(shaking  his  head  rubbing  his 
eyes,  then  feeUng  gingerly  of  his 
jaw) 

WeU . . . 

9.  CLOSE  SHOT 
THE  BARTENDER 

As  he  turns  away,  shaking  his 
head. 

BARTENDER 

Dingle— just  once— why  can't 
you  be  neutral? 

CAMERA  PULLS  BACK  FOR  FULL 
SHOT  OF  THE  ROOM  and  in  doing 
so  continues  to  show  the  men  in 
pantomime  as  they  argue  back 
and  forth— Dingle  in  the  center,  first 
grabbed  by  the  bettor,  then 
shoved  by  Callahan  the  bookie. 
On  the  pull-back,  two  creatures 
suddenly  come  into  the  frame. 
They  are  birlbous-headed  green 
men  with  tentacles  sticking  up 
behind  their  ears. 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

And  these  two  unseen 


gentlemen  are  visitors  from 
outer  space. 

The  FRAME  FREEZES  on  the  two 
creatures  and  then  the  CAMERA 
WHIP  PANS  OVER  TO  SERUNG  who 
sits  in  a booth  He's  drinking  a 
beer  looks  up. 

SERUNG 

They  are  about  to  alter  the 
destiny  of  Luther  Dingle  by 
leaving  him  a legacy,  the  kind 
you  can't  hardly  find  no  more. 
In  just  a moment  a sad-faced 
perennial  punching  bag,  who 
missed  even  the  caboose  of 
life's  gravy  trcrin,  will  take  a 
short  constitutional  into  that 
most  unpredictable  region  that 
we  refer  to  os  , . . The  Twilight 
Zone. 

FADE  TO  BLACK 

OPENING  BILLBOARD 
FIRST  COMMERCIAL 

FADE  ON; 

lO.  INT.  BAR  DAY  LONG 
ANGLE  SHOT  LOOKING 
DOWN  AT  ROOM 

The  focal  point  being  the  two 
ciistomers,  Dingle  and  the 
bartender.  The  bettor  has  once 
again  advanced  to  a space  close 
to  underneath  Dingle's  nose  and 
is  going  through  the  preliminary 
flourishes  to  another  bodily  attack. 

BETTOR 

, . . and  I soy  that  anybody 
who  tells  me  that  the 
Philadelphia  Phillies  had  any 
right  winning  the  pennant  that 
year  is  out  of  their  green-grass 
minds,  and  furthermore,  if 
you're  gonna  sit  there  and  tell 
me— 

His  voice  continues  underneath  as 
the  CAMERA  GOES  DOWN  and 
then  PULLS  BACK  so  that  once 
again  the  two  green  creatures  are 
framed  in  the  foreground. 

CREATURE  ONE 
(tirms  to  the  other) 

You're  sure  we're  invisible? 

CREATURE  TWO 
' Beyond  any  doubt. 

CREATURE  ONE 

(pointing  toward  the  other  men) 


I wish  they  were.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  jerky-looking 
creatures? 

CREATURE  TWO 
Typical  earlhmen 
(then  studying  them  a little  more 
closely) 

Not  really,  though.  The  one  in 
the  middle.  The  one  who's  just 
suffered  the  physical  damage. 
Now  this  might  be  the  very  one 
we're  looking  for. 

CREATURE  ON15 

How  do  you  mean— 

CREATURE  TWO 

Sssh,  silence;.  I'm  receiAting  his 
waves  now. 

(he  nods  a couple  of  times) 

His  name  is  Dingle.  He's  an 
abject  coward  He  doesn't  even 
possess  what  the  earth 
creatures  call  "minimum 
muscles."  He's  decidedly  a 
sub-physical  type. 

(then  turning  to  the  other  creatirre) 
I believe  we  have  found  our 
subject. 

CREATURE  ONE 

You  intend  to  give  him  the 
additional  strength? 

CREATURE  TWO 

We  haven't  found  anyone 
weaker,  hcr/e  we?  Yes,  this  one 
will  make  an  exceptional 
subject  I think  ...  oh,  about 
eleven  secograms— atomic 
weight.  That  should  make  him 
roughly  three  hundred  times  as 
strong  as  the  average  human, 
(a  pause) 

Yes,  I believe  that  ought  to  do  it 
We'd  better  check  with  central 
laboratories.  Tell  them  we've 
picked  a subject  and  they  can 
start  observing  him  now. 

(then  turning  to  the  other  creature) 
Let  him  hcrv  e it 

IL  GROUP  SHOT  DINGLE 
AND  OlHER  THREE  MEN 

Over  his  shoulder  we  can  see 
the  two  creatures  staring  at  them 
one  of  whom  has  taken  out  a 
cylindrical  kind  of  object  and  has 
begun  to  set  dials  and  then  point 
it  toward  them. 

BARTENDER 

Look,  Dingle),  you  don't  got  to 
answer  this  guy  at  all  Just 
'cause  he  don't  happen  to  like 
the  Phillies— 


92  Twilight  Zone 


BETTOR 

Let  him  tell  me!  Yovi've  got  a 
brain,  don't  you?  You  got  a 
point  ot  view.  All  right— what 
did  you  think  ot  the  Phillies  in 
1953? 

DINGLE 

(looks  from  one  to  the  other) 

The  Phillies  in  1953. 

BETTOR 

That's  right.  You  tell  me  for 
example  if  you  think  Robin 
Roberts  was  one  half  the 
pitcher  that  Lobine  was  that 
year! 

12.  CLOSE  SHOT 
BAfiTZNDER 

Who  closes  his  eyes  and  shakes 
his  head  with  a "here  we  go 
again"  look. 

13.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

DINGLE 
WeU  . . . 

(he  clears  his  throat) 

Of  the  two  . . . Td  be  inclined  to 
take  . . . 

(then  looking  up  a litle  wistfully) 
Roberts? 

14.  CLOSE  SHOT 
THE  BETTOR 

Whose  eyes  go  a little  glazed. 
BETTOR 

Buddy  , , , why  alio:  time  you 
gotta  fight  me?  Nov/  let's  run 
through  that  one  more  time. 
You  soy  that  Robin  Roberts  had 
more  stuff  than  Clem  Lobine? 

15.  TWO  SHOT 
THE  TWO  MEN 

DINGLE 

To  be  perfectly  honest  and 
candid  ...  as  to  the  two  men 
...  as  good  as  they  both  are 
...  all  things  being  equal  . . . 

BETTOR 

So  c'mon  ov/ready.  Who  do 
you  pick? 

DINGLE 

(again  wistfuUy) 

Roberts? 

16.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE  FIST 

As  it  once  again  hits  Dingle 
smack  in  the  mouth  and  he 


topples  over  the  stool  to  land  in 
the  bartender's  arms. 

17.  GROUP  SHOT 

BARTENDER 

Tm  tellin'  you  for  the  lost  time. 
You  pull  any  more  rough  stuff 
around  here  and  I ain't  gonna 
let  you  in  that  front  door.  Now 
look  what  you  done  to  this  poor 
guy. 

(he  slops  Dingle's  cheeks  and 
gradually  brings  him  back  to 
conciousness) 

How  do  you  feel  Dingle? 

DINGLE 

Clem  Lobine  was  definitely 
superior. 

BETTOR 

You  see?  All  Tm  doin'  is  makin' 
him  see  things  clearer! 

The  bartender  continues  to  pat 
Dingle's  cheeks.  Over  his  shoulder 
we  see  the  cylindrical  object 
now  pointing  toward  them  and 
sending  out  a stream  of  light.  For 
a moment  it  seems  to  bathe 
Dingle  in  illuminatioa  then 
gradually  fades  out.  The  two 
creatures  in  the  background 
suddenly  disappear. 

18.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
THE  BARTENDER 

As  he  again  pats  Dingle's  face. 

BARTENDER 

How  about  it,  Dingle?  How  you 
doin'? 


19.  TWO  SHOT  DINGLE  AND 
THE  BARTENDER 

DINGLE 

(looks  up,  open  his  eyes  and 
blinks  them,  takes  one  look  across 
at  the  bettor) 

Definitely  Clem  Lobine. 

The  bartender  helps  Dingle  to  his 
feet  picks  up  his  vacuum  cleaner 
and  accessories  lor  him  and  v/ith 
his  other  hand  ushers  the  little 
man  toward  the  door.  They  stop  at 
the  door.  The  bartender  puts  the 
vacuum  cleaner  dovm.) 

BARTENDER 

Dingle— do  you  mind  a word  of 
advice?  There's  some  guys  in 
this  world  that  are  gonna  get 
punched  in  the  nose  no  matter 
who  they  pick  in  a ball  game, 
who  they  vote  for,  or  the  color 
of  the  tie  they  put  on  in  the 
morning. 

(he  points  to  Dingle) 

You're  one  of  those  guys, 

Dingle.  So  do  you  know  what  I 
think  you  ought  to  do  from  now 
on?  Don't  talk.  Just  nod.  If  a guy 
asks  you  who  you  like  in  the 
third,  jrrst  smile  at  him  If 
somebody  asks  you  who  you're 
votin'  for— you  just  nod.  And  if 
you're  sittin'  in  the  bleacher  for 
some  double  header  and  you 
hear  some  guy  yellin'  for  the 
. Dodgers— you  don't  go  yellin' 
for  the  Pirates.  You  just  leave 
your  seat  and  go  get  a hot  dog. 
Understand,  Dingle? 

Dingle  takes  a deep  breath  that 


Twilight  Zone  93 


e 


suddenly  stops  holtway.  He  looks 
queerly  at  the  bartender  therf 
around  the  room,  then  at  himselt. 
He  holds  up  his  hands,  in  front  of 
him  studies  the  fingers,  flexes 
them  over  and  over  again. 

BARTENDER 

Whotsamatter? 

DINGLE 
That's  odd. 

BARTENDER 
What's  odd? 

DINGLE 

I feel  ...  I feel  so  funny. 

Then  he  shmgs  off  the  whole 
thing,  bends  over  and  picks  up 
the  vacuum  cleaner.  This  is  done 
with  the  musical  accompaniment 
of  going  up  the  scale  on  a flute. 
Dingle  stares  at  the  vacuum 
cleaner  held  out  in  front  of  him. 

DINGLE 

Now  what  do  you  suppose 
caused  that? 

BARTENDER 
Caused  what? 

DINGLE 

The  vacuum  cleaner.  It  feels  as 
light  as  a feather. 

(then  hurriedly  reverting  back  to 
what  is  obviously  port  of  an  old 
pitch) 

Not  that  the  machine  isn't  light. 
It  happens  to  be  one  of  the 
lightest  on  the  market.  It's  a 
handy-dandy,  jim  cracker 


A-one  piece  of  merchandise, 
guaranteed  to  lighten  the  labor 
and  lengthen  the  life  of  the 
wonderful  partner  in  the 
American  home— the 
housewife! 

Then  he  looks  back  down  to  the 
vacuum  cleaner,  hoists  it  a couple 
of  times.  It  almost  goes  over  his 
head  in  the  process. 

DINGLE 

But  . . . but  I've  never  thought  it 
was  tte  light! 

He  shmgs,  thmsts  it  under  his  arm, 
reaches  for  the  door. 

20.  FLASH  CLOSE  SHOT 
ms  HAND 

His  fingers  encircling  the  door 
knob. 

21.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 

As  the  door  comes  completely  off 
its  hinges  and  we  see  Dingle 
standing  there  holding  it  up  in 
mid-air  staring  at  it. 

22.  FLASH  CLOSE  SHOT 
BARTENDER 

Staring  ogle-eyed. 

23.  FLASH  SHOT 
CALLAHAN  THE  BOOKIE 

Who  has  a shot  glass  enroute  to 
his  mouth.  His  eyes  pop,  his  jaw 
drops  a couple  of  inches.  He  looks 
briefly  at  the  shot  glass,  sniffs 
it  then  downs  it  in  a hurry  and 
throws  the  glass  over  his  shoulder. 


24.  DIFFERIOT  ANGLE 
DINGLE 

As  he  slowly  and  rather  gingerly 
puts  the  door  down  on  the  floor 
and  leans  it  against  the  wall. 

He  looks  apologetically  and 
mystifiedly  at  the  bartender,  then 
to  the  door,  then  back  to  the 
bartender,  then  back  to  his  own 
right  hand 

BARTENDER 

Look,  Dingle  . . . with  all  your 
faults  . . . Despite  the  fact  that 
you  cost  me  in  iodine  what  1 
normally  have  to  put  out  for  the 
water  bill— you've  always  been 
a nice-type  fellah  who  never 
gave  me  no  trouble.  Now  why 
an  of  a sudden  you  got  to 
wreck  my  front  door? 

DINGLE 

Believe  me,  Mr.  O'Toole,  1 am 
mystified.  1 am  absolutely 
mystified.  The  door  just  seemed 
to  . . . just  seemed  to  come  off 
in  my  hand! 

He  looks  down  at  his  hand. 

25.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

As  he  gapes. 

26.  CLOSE  SHOT  HIS  HAND 

He  holds  the  door  knob  in  it  He 
smiles,  clears  his  throat  blinks, 
hands  the  door  knob  back  to  the 
bartender,  then  bends  over,  picks 
up  his  vacuum  cleaner  and 
accessories  and  hurries  out  the 
front  door. 

DISSOLVE  TO, 


27.  EXT.  RESIDENTIAL  STREET 
DAY  LONG  SHOT 

Looking  down  the  sidewalk. 
Dingle,  vacuum  cleaner  and 
accessories  in  hand,  approaches 
a house  with  a picket  fence.  Two 
ten-year-old  kids  toss  a footbaU 
back  and  forth  on  the  front  lawn 
One  of  them,  whose  manner  and 
voice  are  vagruely  reminiscent  of 
John  Dillinger  juts  out  a jaw  at 
the  approaching  Dingle.  '' 

BOY 

You  here  again?  Didn't  my  old 
man  soy  he  was  going  to 
punch  you  in  the  jaw  if  you 
come  around  here  botherin'  us 
again? 


94  Twilight  Zone 


I 


Dingle  hurriedly  checks  a 
notebook,  looks  up  at  the  address. 

DINGLE 

You're  quite  right.  Vi^rong 
address.  I was  heatiing  next 
door. 

28.  DIFFERENT  AN(^ 

DINGLE 

As  he  starts  to  walk  p(3st  the  picket 
fence. 

29.  CLOSE  SHOT  THE  BOY 

As  he  flings  the  footbctll 

30.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

As  it  hits  him  on  the  side  of  the 
head,  knocking  his  hat  off. 

31.  DIFFERENT  AN(3LE 
DINGLE 

As  he  picks  up  the  ba  ll  waggles  a 
finger  smiles  forcedly. 

DINGLE 

Now  that's  not  the  best  of  all 
possible  manners,  is  it? 

32.  CLOSE  SHOT 
THE  LITTLE  BO'S' 

As  he  gives  him  a Bronx  cheer. 

BOY 

Aww,  go  peddle  your  vacuum 
cleaners,  ya  creep!  And  throw 
my  ball  back, 

33.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

Again  the  diffident  smile. 

DINGLE 

All  right.  Go  out  for  a pass. 

The  very  daintily  he  picks  up  the 
football  in  a most  inexpert 
obviously  unaccustomed  gesture, 
hauls  back  and  throws  the  boll. 
ZOOMAR  INTO  HIS  FACE  as  he 
stares  up  toward  the  sky. 

34.  FLASH  SHOT  BOY  ONE 

Reacting. 

35.  FLASH  SHOT  BOY  TWO 

Reacting. 

36.  FLASH  SHOT  PAINTER 
ON  A LADDER 

Staring  up  toward  the  sky.  He 
drops  the  bucket  and  half  flies 
down  the  ladder  before  he's  able 
to  catch  himself. 


37.  LONG  SHOT  THE  SKY 

'The  ball  hurtles  up  as  if  filled  with 
helium. 

CUT  TO, 

38. '  DJT.  KITCHEN 

A man  sits  at  a breakfast  table, 
eating  grapefruit  An  open 
window  juk  a few  feet  from  him. 
The  ball  hurtles  in  through  the 
window,  whips  past  the  man's 
face. 

CUT  TO, 

39.  CLOSE  SHOT  KITCHEN 
DOOR 

The  ball  smashes  into  it  and 
through  it  leaving  just  one  large 
splintered  hole. 

40.  CLOSE  SHOT  THE  MAN 

Reacting,  rising  to  his  feet  then 
mnning  over  to  the  window  to 
stare  out. 

CUT  TO, 

4L  EXT.  STREET  DAY 
FULL  SHOT 

By  the  picket  fence  where  Dingle 
and  the  two  boys  are  still  staring 
toward  the  sky. 

BOY 

(in  absolute  rapt  reverence) 

Hey,  mister  . , , where'd  you 
leom  to  fling  a ball  like  that? 
DINGLE 

(shakes  his  head,  gulps,  stammers) 

I ...  I really  don't  know! 

(then  looking  off  and  to  no  one  in 
particular) 

What's  happening  to  me?  What 
in  the  world  is  happening  to 
me? 


42.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 

As  he  starts  to  walk  hurriedly 
away  from  the  scene.  A cab  turns 
up  the  street  goes  slowly  past  him. 

DINGLE 

(shouts  suddenly) 

Cob!  Taxi! 

He  waggles  a finger,  then  rushes 
across  the  street  to  where  the  cab 
has  stopped. 

43.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
SIDE  OF  CAB 

Where  Dingle  hurriedly  starts  to 
open  the  door  and  is  aghast  at 
the  fact  (as  is  the  driver)  that  the 


door  comes  off  in  his  hand  as  he 
stands  there  holding  it  up  in  the 
air.  Still  holding  it  he  turns  very 
slowly  to  face  the  camera,  his 
head  tilted,  his  eyes  a little  glazed. 

DINGLE 

(to  the  cab  driver  who's  staring  at 
him) 

Believe  me,  this  is  as  much  a 
mystery  to  me  as  it  is  to  you. 

He  scratches  his  jaw  pensively, 
shakes  his  head,  looks  around 
absolutely  perplexed,  then  leans 
against  the  cab. 

44.  LONG  SHOT  DINGLE 

Leaning  against  the  cab  as  the 
pressure  of  his  body  pushes  the 
cab  over  on  its  side, 


Twilight  Zone  95 


Photo  courtesy  Marc  Scott  Zicree 


Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong 


45.  CLOSE  SHOW  PAINTER 
ON  THE  LADDER 

He  has  been  looking  down  at 
the  street.  Once  again  the  bucket 
drops  and  down  he  goes, 
scrabbling  at  the  metal  rungs  at 
the  lost  moment  and  preventing 
himself  from  going  all  the  way 
down. 

DISSOLVE  TO, 

46.  EXT.  PARK  DAY 

Dingle  sits  alone  on  a bench 
staring  across  at  nothing.  The 
vacuum  cleaner  is  at  his  feet. 

A young  nursemaid  passes 
wheeling  a baby  carriage.  She 
looks  at  Dingle,  smiles  at  him  then 
pushes  the  carriage  onto  the  gross 
then  sits  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
bench.  After  a couple  of  false 
starts  and  a few  side  looks,  Dingle 
. turns  to  her  bit  in  his  teeth  * 

DINGLE 

Excuse  me,  miss. 

NURSE 

Yes. 

DINGLE 

I don't  want  you  to  think  I'm 
a masher  or  anything  like  that. 

I am  certainly  not  a masher, 
but  ...  I wonder  if  you'd  mind 
...  I wonder  if  you'd  mind 
answering  a question? 

NURSE 

(with  a smile) 

'That  depends. 

DINGLE 

What  I mean  is  . . . looking 
at  me  . . . would  you  say  that 
at  least  upon  a perfunctory, 
cursor/,  very  first  surveyal  . . . 
would  I appear  to  be 
abnormal  in  any  way? 

NURSE 

Goughs) 

Not  at  all 

(then  pointing  to  the  vacuum 
cleaner) 

Unless  you  plan  to  use  that  in 
the  park. 

DINGLE 

(dismisses  it  with  a wave) 

Oh  that!  Up  to  a lew  hours  ago 
I sold  those  things.  Or  at  least  I 
went  through  the  motions.  I was 
a miserably  bad  salesman.  Just 


miserable.  Would  you  believe 
it?  Last  month  I made  exactly 
eighty-nine  cents  in  commission 
and  that  was  for  an 
attachment.  An  upholstery 
no2zle.  And  I sold  it  to  a dmnk 
who  kept  insisting  it  was  a 
divining  rod  for  alcohol  I 
actually  expected  to  be  fired 
today,  but  that's  the  least  of  my 
worries.  Would  you  be 
interested  in  listening  to  what 
are  the  most  of  my  worries? 

NURSE 

Go  ahead. 

DINGLE 

Watch 

He  rises  from  the  bench. 

47.  LONG  SHOT  DINGLE 

Suddenly  stooping  down  and 
lifting  up  the  bench,  nurse  and  all 
into  the  air.  The  nurse  screams. 
'Then  Dingle  sets  it  down 

48.  CLOSE  SHOT  THE  NURSE 

Wide-eyed. 

49.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

Shmgging,  cocking  his  head 
again. 

DRIGLE 

See?  Now  watch  this. 

50.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
DINGLE 

As  he  walks  over  to  a large, 
boulderUke  rock  set  at  the  end 
of  a pxitch  of  garden.  He  picks  it 
up  as  if  it  were  made  out  of 
marshmallow,  holds  it  in  both  his 
hands,  exerts  what  appears  to  be 
only  a modicum  of  effort.  The 
giant  stone  breaks  in  his  hands 
He  holds  out  both  pieces 

DINGLE 

See? 

5L  WHIP  PAN  OVER  TO  A - 
PRESS  PHOTOGRAPHER 

Standing  a few  feet  in  front  of 
two  gorgeous  bathing  beauties 
obviously  brought  out  there  lor  a 
posing  session  The  photographer 
stares  across  at  Dingle, 
deliberately  turrrs  his  back  on  the 
bathing  suits  carries  his  camera 
over  to  Dingle. 

52.  TRACK  SHOT  WITH  HIM 

As  he  walks 


53.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE  THE 
TWO  OF  THEM 

As  he  pauses  by  Dingle. 

PHOTOGRAPHER 

Hey,  buddy  ...  I'm  a 
photographer  with  the  Bulletin 
. . . would  you  mind  doing  that 
again? 

DINGLE 

You  mean  -v/ith  the  rock? 

PHOTOGRAPHER 

That's  right.  Incidentally,  whofs 
the  gag? 

DINGLE 

(throwing  away  one  of  the  rocks) 
No  gag.  See? 

He  takes  the  remaining  hall  in  his 
hands  and  with  the  same  almost 
studied  ease,  breaks  it  in  holt  then 
flings  the  rocks  down 

54.  CLOSE  SHOT  THE 
BROKEN  TWO  PIECES  AT 
HIS  FEET 

55.  CLOSE  SHOT 
PHOTOCXAPHER 

PHOTOGRAPHED 
(in  a hushed  voice) 

Get  another  one  of  those, 
buddy— this  I got  to  get  in  the 
paper! 

He  turns  and  busies  himself 
preparing  the  camera. 

DINGLE'S  VOICE  (OFF) 

Will  this  one  do? 

The  photograi;)her  looks  up  and 
then  down  and  then  double-takes 
back  again  Py\N  SHOT  OVER  TO 
DINGLE  who  stands  there  with  on 
absolute  giant  boulder  which  he 
holds  very  nonchalantly  in  the 
palm  of  one  hand.  CAMERA 
ZOOMS  IN  for  a VERY  TIGHT  CLOSE 
SHOT  OF  DINGLE  He  smiles  then 
stops  smiling  then  blinks,  then 
looks  quizzically  off  to  one  side, 
then  just  shrugs  with  a resigned 
expression  and  assumes  the  pose 
a nineteenthcentury  football 
player  holding,  instead  of  a 
football  a six-hundred-pound  item 
which  rests  easily  on  his  upraised 
palm 

FADE  TO  BLACK: 

END  ACT  ONE 


96  Tivilight  Zone 


ACT  TWO 

FADE  ON, 

56.  INT.  BEDROOM 

FULL  SHOT  THE  ROOM 

Dingle  lies  in  bed  in  his  pajamas, 
sleeping  comiortably  CAMERA 
PANS  OVER  TO  THE  DOOR  of  the 
room.  A newspaper  Fias  been 
slipped  in  underneath. 

57.  CLOSE  SHOT  INSERT 
FRONT  PAGE 

We  see  the  shot  of  Dingle  holding 
up  the  giant  boulder  and  the 
large  caption  underneath, 
"Hercules?  No,  Luther  Dingle,  the 
20th-Century  Samson"  CAMERA 
PANS  BACK  over  to  Dingle  who 
lies  on  his  side  like  an  angelic, 
overgrown  baby.  The  alarm  clock 
rings. 

58.  DIFFERENT  ANiSLE 
THE  ALARM  QOCK 

As  Dingle's  hand  prolDes  the  air 
and  finally  finds  the  source  of  the 
noise.  He  pushes  the  button  down 
to  stop  the  ring  and  in  doing  so, 
crushes  the  alarm  clock  like  a 
pancake. 

59.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
DINGLE 

As  he  starts  to  go  back  to  sleep, 
then  suddenly  bolts  upright,  stares 
at  the  alarm  clock. 

60.  CLOSE  SHOT 
ALARM  CLOCK 

Flattened. 

6L  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

Reacting.  He  gets  out  of  bed  stares 
at  the  alarm  clock,  then  looks  oft 
obviously  going  through  a set  of 
internal  questions,  walks  over  to 
the  dresser,  rolls  up  a pajama 
sleeve  and  flexes  what  purports  to 
be  a muscle.  Then  he  hurriedly 
rolls  down  the  sleeve  and 
shakes  his  head  in  complete 
bewilderment  Then  he  looks 
down  at  the  top  of  the  dresser, 
picks  up  a hair  brush,  holds  it 
between  two  fingers  and  exerts  a 
pressure. 

62.  CLOSE  SHOT 
HAIRBRUSH 

As  the  handle  breaks  in  two. 


63.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

Reacting  again  looks  at  his 
reflection  in  the  mirror,  rolls  up  his 
sleeve  and  examines  his  muscle 
again  then  shmgs,  walks  over  to 
a chair  and  starts  to  put  his  shirt 
on. 

DISSOLVE  TO, 

64.  INT.  BAR  DAY 

PAN  SHOT  across  the  room.  It's 
crowded  with  people.  All  eyes  are 
on  Dingle  who  sits  at  a booth 
being  interviewed.  There  are  a 
line  of  supplicants,  con  men  p.r. 
representatives,  pugs,  fight 
managers,  television  executives,  et 
al,  who  wait  impatiently  for  an 
audience. 

65.  MED.  GROUP  SHOT 
DINGLE  AND  PEOPLE  WHO 
SURROUND  HIM 

MAN  ONE 

(in  checkered  suit  with  derby  and 
aged  cigar) 

Mr.  Dingle  ...  if  what  we  hear 
is  tme  ...  do  you  realize  how 
much  money  can  be  made  on 
a tour  with  our  carnival? 

MAN  TWO 

(in  a charcoal  gray  suit) 

Mr  Dingle  . . . this  is  a 
con  artist.  Your  future  lies 
in  television.  You're  the 
walking,  talking  embodiment 
of  every  American  male's  wish 
fulfillment  You're  John  Q. 

Citizen.  You're  Babbitt.  You're 


Tom  Dick,  and  Harry. 

(he  takes  out  a large  sheaf  of 
papers) 

Now  here's  our  idea  for  the 
series.  A simple  fifteen-minute, 
across-the-board  address  by 
you  with  little  examples  of  your 
physical  prowess!  A natural  for 
breakfast  cereals,  tonics, 
vitcamin  pills,  anything! 

This  man  in  turn  is  shouldered  out 
of  the  way  by  a turtle-necked  fight 
manager. 

MAN  THREE 

And  I keep  telling  you,  Dingle, 
Patterson  is  a nothin'.  You  line 
up  with  me.  I'll  get  you  a 
coupla  real  easy  set-ups  and 
inside  eight  months  I'll  hove 
you  fightin'  for  the  world 
championship. 

66.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
THERCX>M 

As  a television  camera  is  being 
brought  in.  Jason  Abernathy,  a tv 
interviewer,  is  pushing  people 
aside.  Lights  are  being  set  up. 

67.  FLASH  SHOT  OTOOLE 
THE  BARTENDER 

As  he  furiously  pours  drinks  and 
then  deposits  fistfuUs  of  money  into 
a cash  register.  Each  time  he  does 
so,  a drunk  leaning  over  the  bar 
takes  out  a bill  waves  it  in  his 
fingers.  O'Toole  fills  a gloss,  then 


Twilight  Zone  97 


takes  the  bill  crams  it  into  the  ^ 

* cosh  register,  then  hurries  oil  to  the 
next  customer.  The  dmnk  drains 
the  gloss  then  reaches  over,  takes 
out  a bill  again,  waves  it  in  the  air 
and  we  go  through  the  motions 
all  over  again 

ABERNATHY 

All  right  everybody.  We're 
going  on  the  air  in  just  a tew 
minutes  Would  the  people 
surrounding  Mi  Dingle  get  out 
ot  the  way,  please! 

68.  LONG  SHOT  DINGLE 
AND  ms  GROUP 

Protesting,  they  move  aside. 

69.  MED.  CLOSE  SHOT 
ABEBNATHT 

Staring  solemnly  at  the  camera. 

70.  CLOSE  SHOT  CAMERA 

As  the  lights  go  on 

7L  CLOSE  SHOT 
ABERNATHY 

As  his  tace  is  suddenly  wreathed 
in  a giant  smile. 

ABERNATHY 

Hello  there,  friends.  Jason 
Abernathy  here  with  your  show 
—“TV  Probes  the  Unusual"  And 
our  unusual  subject  today  . . . 

He  moves  aide  and  points  toward 
booth  where  Dingle  sits  proudly, 
like  an  underfed  Cheshire  cot  who 
really  doesn't  know  that  he's 


suffering  from  malnutrition. 
ABERNATHY 

Mr  Luther  Dingle,  who,  if  what 
actual  onlookers  say  is  tme,  is 
the  world's  strongest  man  Mr. 
Dingle  . . . 

(he  carries  the  hand  mike  over  to 
the  table) 

Mr.  Dingle,  would  you  give  us 
an  example  of  this  fantastic— 
(then  clearing  his  throat) 

—alleged  . . . strength  of  yours? 

DINGLE 

I'd  be  happy  to. 

He  half  rises  in  the  booth,  wiggles 
a couple  of  fingers  over  toward 
the  bar. 

72.  CLOSE  SHOT  OTOOLE 

Looking  at  him. 

73.  REVERSE  ANGLE  OVER 
OTOOLES  SHOULDER 

AT  DINGLE 

DINGLE 

Mr.  O'Toole?  Is  it  all  right?  . 
You  know,  the  thing  we 
discussed? 

BARTENDER 

Are  you  kiddin'?  I ain't  done 
business  like  this  since  the  night 
they  repealed  the  Eighteenth 
Amendment.  Be  my  guest 
Dingle! 

74.  CLOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

He  smiles 


DMGLE 

Well  ru  start  off  with  the  simple 
things. 

He  turns  to  the  wall  chuckles,  then 
plows  a right  hand  directly 
through  it  creating  a three-foot 
hole  in  the  plaster.  'Then  still 
smiling,  winking  broadly,  he  walks 
around  the  table,  pots  the  top 
of  it  with  his  hand.  It  splinters 
in  the  middle  and  both  sides 
plummet  to  the  floor.  He  moves 
past  Abernathy,  rubbing  his  jaw 
thoughtfully  and  looking  around 
the  room.  PAN  SHOT  AROUND  the 
room,  Dingle's  p.o.v. 

75.  TRACK  SHOT  WITH  HIM 

Over  to  a bar  stool  He  grips  the 
stool's  support  attached  to  a 
pedestal  at  the  foot  makes  a very 
small  gesture  and  the  thing  is 
ripped  up  from  the  floor  He  lays 
this  against  the  bat  dusts  off  his 
hands,  then  continues  to  look 
around  the  room. 

76.  PAN  SHOT  AROUND  THE 
ROOM 

Post  the  gaping,  ogling  faces,  the 
amazed  cameraman  Abernathy 
who  looks  concerned,  post  the 
bettor  who's  sitting  there  in  his 
cups  as  usual  The  CAMERA 
PASSES  HIM  then  WHIP  PANS  BACK 
to  him  He  slowly  rises  off  his  stool 
his  face  white  wth  fear 

BETTOR 

Wait  a minute,  Dingle.  Ain't  you 
ever  heard  of  bygones  being 
bygones? 

Dingle  walks  over  to  him  lifts  him 
off  the  ground  by  his  shirt  front 

77.  LONG  ANGLE  SHOT 
LOOKING  DOWN 

As  Dingle  whirls  him  around  and 
around  and  around  over  his  head 
by  holding  him  up  in  the  air  with 
one  hand,  then  deposits  him  on 
his  feet  where  he  sways  dizzily 
and  then  falls  against  the  bar 

78.  CAMERJti  PANS  OVER 

for  a shot  of  the  crowd  watching, 
then  DOLLIES  THROUGH  the  crowd 
until  we're  on  the  two  green  men 
from  Mors.  They  look  on  with 
bored  disgust. 

CREATURE  ONE 
Had  enough? 


98  Twilight  Zone 


CREATURE  TWO 

Most  interior.  We  give  him  the 
strength  ot  three  hundred  men 
and  he  uses  it  for  F)etty 
exhibition.  Give  him  about 
twenty  or  thirty  more  seconds 
and  then  remove  the  power. 

CREATURE  ONE 

Excellent  idea,  and  I think  we'd 
best  be  off.  Three  planets  on  the 
itinerary  for  tomorrow.  One  is 
particularly  interesting. 

Contains  only  females. 

The  CAMERA  PANS  By\CK  over  to 
Dingle  who  holds  up  Itiis  hand  to 
stop  the  applause  that  has 
suddenly  burst  forth. 

DINGLE 

And  now,  ladies  and 
gentlemea  I believe  the  most 
unique  feat  of  aE  I will  lift 
up  this  entire  building  with  my 
bare  hands. 

CAMERA  PANS  AROUIMD  THE 
ROOM  with  the  faces  reacting, 
hums,  murmurs,  whisperings. 

Dingle  walks  to  the  center  of  the 
room  and  in  quick  succession 
ploughs  both  his  feet  one  after  the 
other,  down  through  the  floor.  He 
then  proceeds  to  get  down  into 
the  hole  that  he's  created. 

79.  DIFFERENT  ANCai  OF  HIM 

Up  to  his  waist  with  jast  his  tmnk 
sticking  up  above  the  floor.  Over 
his  shoulder  we  see  the  two 
creatures,  one  of  whom  has  the 
ray  gun  out  agaia  and  for  just  a 
brief  moment  Dingle  is  bathed  in 
the  strange  light  which  then  fades 
off 

80.  CXOSE  SHOT  DINGLE 

As  his  face  takes  on  a strange 
look  He  slowly  clambers  out  of 
the  hole,  rubs  his  jaw  reflectively, 
and  with  mounting  concern  flexes 
his  fingers,  bends  both  his  arms, 
walks  over  to  the  bat  gulps, 
swallows,  reaches  once  again  for 
the  stool  support  and  yanks. 
Nothing  happens.  He  clears  his 
throat  walks  back  over  to  another 
booth  adjoining  the  one  he's 
already  destroyed,  bringrs  down 
his  fist  hard  on  the  table, 
lets  out  a loud  yelp  as  nothing  has 
happened  except  a badly 
bmised  set  of  knuckles 


8L  PAN  SHOT  AROUND  THE 
ROOM 

As  the  people  react.  This  time 
audible  in  the  whisperings  and 
murmurings  is  the  word  "fake." 

82.  MED.  CLOSE  SHOT 
DINGLE 

As  he  looks  at  the  wall  agaia 

83.  CLOSE  SHOT  WALL 
WITH  HOLE  IN  IT 

Dingle  walks  into  the  frame,  licks 
a finger  and  makes  a cross  just 
above  the  first  hole. 

84.  DIFFERENT  ANGLE 
DINGLE 

As  he  hits  the  wall  again.  Once 
again  he  shouts  with  pain. 

85.  GROUP  SHOT 
THE  PEOPLE 

Who  stare  at  him.  This  time 
the  evidence  of  charlatanism 
seems  unarguable,  and  the 


disappointment  turns  into  laughter. 
The  room  convulses  with  it 

86.  MED.  CLOSE  SHOT 
DINGLE 

As  he  slumps  down  in  a seat  of 
the  nearest  booth. 

87.  LONG  SHOT  THE  BETTOR 

As  he  parades  across  the  room 
like  the  chief  rooster  of  the 
barnyard. 

88.  TWO  SHOT  DINGLE  AND 
BETTOR 

As  the  bettor  twits  Dingle's  nose  a 
couple  of  times,  then  steps  back 
as  if  studying  the  target  then 
hauls  off  ready  to  let  one  go.  The 
bartender  grabs  hira  pinions  his 
aims,  piishes  him  aside. 

BARTENDER 

Leave  off  with  poor  Dingle. 
Come  on  now.  Get  outa  here. 

The  bettor  suffers  himself  to  be 
escorted  back  to  the  bar.